Distraction
by Durinsbride
Summary: This sudden awareness of his physical appeal was more than a nuisance; it was fast becoming a liability, a daily distraction. It wasn't that she'd never noticed that he was attractive; it was just that after they'd first landed she was occupied with other, more important matters...
1. Chapter 1: Distraction

He was at the north edge of the wall when she found him, bellowing orders as usual.

Clarke chuckled softly to herself. Just call him Bellow-my instead of Bellamy; hardly anyone would notice the difference, and it was far more appropriate, considering.

"I WANT TO SEE THIS GAP CLOSED BY SUNDOWN," he was presently commanding, striding back and forth like an army general inspecting the (lackluster) troops, hands on his hips, generous mouth twisted down at the corners in his usual expression of displeasure, his shoulders and back taut and unyielding. As he paused to inspect the work the team had completed on the support pillars, the weakening sunlight cast him in gold, and Clarke paused, struck by the picture he presented.

A tall form, clad in blacks and blues, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, lean hips and legs, . When he raised one arm and canted his hips slightly, leaning the bulk of his weight on one leg, she was suddenly and forcefully reminded of Michelangelo's David. It was almost a perfect match, barring the nudity.

A blush warmed her face, and she turned herself away for a moment, cursing her unwelcome (and frankly unnecessary) reaction. She took a deep breath and let it out. Then another.

_Damn_.

This sudden awareness of his physical appeal was more than a nuisance; it was fast becoming a liability, a daily distraction. It wasn't that she'd _never_ noticed that he was attractive; it was just that after they'd first landed she was occupied with other, more important matters, like acquiring food and supplies, surviving a deadly attack by an unseen enemy, or watching an egotistical, power-hungry jerk with a silver tongue sway the masses with a few well-chosen words and easy charisma, creating chaos when she wanted order, dissention when she needed unity, and emotion when she desired rationality.

And yes. She had noticed, even then, in some distant and shuttered part of her mind, (for the majority was occupied with survival) that wild, unruly hair and those dark, heated eyes, the smooth baritone that seemed to skate down her spine like an electric current every time he opened his mouth to speak…

She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes, willing them away, these inconvenient, distracting thoughts. Ignoring the weak, trembling ache in her chest and legs, she raised a hand to her forehead and held it there a moment, checking for sign of a fever. Perhaps she was ill, and this was the cause of her current distress; bacterial infection brought about an increase in temperature and feelings of weakness and fatigue in the chest and extremities. It could just as easily be an illness, and she'd misread the symptoms.

_Come on, Clarke_, she admonished herself, _snap out if it! Now is _not_ the time_…

She opened her eyes, turning on her heel and searching for Bellamy, only to find that he wasn't there. A work team was still at the wall, anchoring support beams in the ground before they started the work of attaching the wooden and metal sheets, but Bellamy wasn't anywhere in sight.

Where had he gone?

"Miller, see to it that they get the main section in place and upright before dark…"

_There_.

He and Miller were standing at the base of the drop ship ramp, talking, heads bent together. At the conclusion, Miller nodded sharply and strode away to his duty, ever the faithful soldier. She was surprised he didn't throw in a little salute now and then.

Smiling at the thought, she almost forgot what she had wanted to talk to Bellamy about in the first place, and now that he was striding away in the direction of his tent, she took off after him in an effort to catch up.

"Bellamy!" she called out mid-jog, and he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the sound, a frown creasing his brow before clearing the moment he recognized her. She was so preoccupied with her determination to talk to him that she missed these changing expressions and his weary sigh, his obvious fatigue, his impatience.

"Hey there, Princess. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He spoke with the usual affectionate sarcasm, wincing only slightly when he turned his head a bit to look at her, raising a hand to the back of his neck to rub at the kinks there.

_Damn_, he was beat, and filthy as fuck from working on the wall all day. He didn't really want to deal with any logistical problems now, but whenever Clarke sought him out it was usually something important, and that pretty much meant that it had to be dealt with now rather than later. Steeling himself for the coming encounter, he waited until she caught up to him, no longer surprised at the sudden feeling of contentment that swept through him whenever she stood at his side, like she was supposed to be there, had always been there…

He shook his head ruefully. God knows when he'd suddenly become so accustomed to her; she was such a bossy little bitch it was a miracle he'd ever come to _tolerate_ her let alone—

He cut off that thought before it's completion. _Eyes forward, Blake_.

Clarke drew breath, seemed to choose her next words carefully.

"You can't cut rations."

Or not. That was his Princess. All business and no pleasure.

That last thought set off a firestorm of disturbing images in his mind, involving a soft mouth and tangled golden hair, and he swallowed thickly before turning on his heel and resuming his walk to his tent, knowing she would follow him because she had that tone in her voice, that Bellamy-I-Have-A-Bone-To-Pick-With-You voice, and standing out here wasn't gonna get him any closer to his tent. He was tired, that's all, and fatigue combined with a little…dry spell…was playing havoc with his mind in the worst way. Time to go to bed…

He closed his eyes at _that_ turn of phrase, ignoring the pulse between his legs that demanded he do just that, preferably with company. Very specific company.

"Too late," he answered curtly, walking quickly toward his tent. He needed to wash his face, badly, because he could literally feel the dirt from the day's work coating his skin in a fine layer. "Already done. They knew the consequences for tardiness. I can't have it happen again. Punctuality for guard duty is a supreme priority, Clarke."

By this time they had reached his tent, and he paused while he lifted the flap to the entrance, holding it up and open for her so she could step inside, hardly aware that he had done so, or that he had done many times before.

Sweeping past him with her usual haughty gait she strode to the middle of his tent, stopping near the center pole and turning to face him, arms crossed beneath her breasts, brows bent in frustration, mouth closed in a thin line. 

He did not, in any way, notice how the gesture parted the collar of her Henley so that it dipped low enough show cleavage. Nor did he notice the creamy (and probably impossibly soft) skin that adorned said cleavage.

_Nope._

"So is nutrition, and adequate caloric intake," she answered, immediately continuing their conversation as if there had been no interruption. "You can't have an effective guard of _any_ kind if he or she is malnourished—"

Bellamy heaved a sigh. _Now_ she got his back up. He was too tired to argue with her tonight, or any other night, really. Couldn't she just once say: _Yes, Bellamy, I agree. _Or:_ You're right, Bellamy, as always. _Or possibly: _Fuck me, Bellamy. Fuck me hard._

He shivered at the last, shaking his head as if to clear it of a swirling fog before he walked over to his work table and the water basin perched on top. Time for some cold water to the head, because this shit had to stop, and stop _now_.

"I can't have them lapsing into bad habits that only snowball later and get out of hand. They need to respect my rules and step up or else there's chaos—"

He bent over the basin and scooped a large handful of water into his hands and splashed it on the back of his neck, bracing himself for the frigid shock of the water as it spilled over his skin and down his back, wetting his shirt and the ends of his hair. He splashed some more on his face and another handful over his hair, scrubbing out the grit before he threw his head back and shook out the drops, raising his eyes to meet Clarke's at last, now that he had the icy feel of the water to ground him.

But she didn't look pissed any more. She looked…distracted?

"Clarke?" he prompted, concerned at her silence, at her wide blue eyes and slightly parted mouth. What was the matter with her?

"R-rations—you can't—" she stumbled over her words for a moment, attempting to gather enough breath to steady herself. What the _hell _had they been talking about, precisely? She struggled to remember, but it was crowded out of her mind by one single, insignificant, but somehow overwhelming fact that wiped out all else before it:

He was…wet.

His inky hair was swept back from his forehead, the water trapped in the strands pulsing silver and white under the fading light of the setting sun filtering through the open top of his tent. She was standing close enough to notice that his thick, dark lashes were star-like spokes above deep, heated eyes. Eyes set above a lush, generous mouth, lips wet from the water sliding over his face and neck, water that he licked away instinctively as she watched, turning his mouth a deep, ruddy pink from the pressure.

Longing, swift and fierce, tore through her. Her mouth was suddenly ravenous, thirsty for the taste of his. She wanted to suckle the pillow-soft push of his bottom lip hard enough to color it cherry red, bite into that tender flesh with her teeth just hard enough to draw blood only to sip it away, to drink him and taste him and ravish his mouth until it burned like it was branded from her kisses and hers alone, because no one else would ever touch him again.

She actually took a step towards him, swaying unsteadily from the force of her desire, as if drunk with the thought itself. Her arm shot out and reached for the relative stability of the pillar at the center of his tent, bracing herself against the cold steel pipe and she fought to stay on her feet.

Bellamy stepped forward and caught her elbow, true concern bending his brow and darkening his eyes as he looked her over.

"Clarke? Are you all right?"

Standing this close she could almost feel the vibration of his deep voice skate down her spine like a lightening strike, caressing the small of her back before it settled nice and cozy in the tangle of her thighs. The pads of his fingers where they touched her skin left heat in their wake. She started to tremble from the sensation.

Bellamy raised a hand to rest the back of his knuckles against her forehead, feeling her brow for signs of a temperature, and she closed her eyes, the better to block him out and regain her composure. This was…this wasn't fair.

"Hey, Princess."

His voice was soft, oh so soft, and close to her ear; she was starting to regret ever following him into his tent. She needed to leave now, or she was going to do something she would later regret, and she couldn't afford that kind of mistake. She'd already made that mistake once, let her feelings and her need carry her away from reason and caution, and she'd had her heart broken. She couldn't do it again—

She opened her eyes and took a step back, started to pull her elbow from his grasp, but he pulled back at the last moment, trapping her there in the grip of his fingers, eyes tracing over her face in gentle scrutiny. He took a step closer and bent his face forward, now only a breath away from her mouth, her lips. She drew in a shaky breath and without her consent her eyes dropped to his mouth, tracing its perfect bow before she lifted them back to his eyes, where a new light, a sudden understanding shone in their black depths, and his mouth tilted upwards in amusement. Smug, conceited amusement.

Oh _shit_. She was completely, royally screwed.

"What's the matter Clarke?" he asked softly, _seductively_, damn him. "You sick or something?" She could almost hear the dark laughter in his voice. His fingers started to sweep gently, almost hesitantly over her skin, his thumb settling for a moment in the divot of her elbow before moving higher, smoothing along her upper arm and under the sleeve of her shirt in a whisper glide of fingers over skin. She started to tremble from the sheer, sweet pleasure of his soft caress, her pulse pounding so heavily in her throat she was almost sure he could hear it.

This could _not_ happen.

Gathering all her strength, she pulled back from him, breaking the contact, dropping her eyes from the magnetic pull of his own.

"Yeah," she answered finally, taking another step backward, needing to put distance and much needed space between them. "I think I might. We can continue this discussion later…when I'm…feeling better."

When she finally looked up to meet his eyes she was met with a flat, hardened gaze, suddenly empty and lacking any kind of warmth. All the softness was gone from his face, his eyes, and in their place was something much like anger, and it shocked her to see it there.

Wait…he was…_angry_ with her?

"Okay…" he said after a beat, his voice as flat and cold as his eyes. "That's the way you want to play it, Princess, that's the way it'll be. Now get out of my tent and let me get some sleep. We'll talk about alternative punishments for tardiness tomorrow."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned away from her and walked back to his worktable, stopping before his basin of water. He crossed his arms and gripped the edges of his shirt, pulling it over his head and away from his body in one swift motion, and Clarke could not stop herself from looking, looking her fill at the hard lines and ridges of his chest and abdomen, the thick mass of his upper arms, his wide shoulders, the lean waist and smooth, honey colored skin.

He stopped for a moment, sensing her gaze, and actually lifted the fabric of his shirt before his bared chest, as if to cover himself. His gaze, when he threw it her way, was hard, defensive.

"You need something else?"

It was the final challenge, perhaps, his last attempt at asking her the question he wouldn't ask outright and she was too afraid to answer. She was in deep, deep trouble.

Because her mouth opened and answered him without her permission, before she even had time to think about what she was saying, and how he would take it.

"Yes…I do…" yet even as she said this she was stepping backwards, out of his tent, "and I might find myself asking for it…sooner or later."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and left his tent, almost running towards her own.

She was in deep, deep trouble.


	2. Chapter 2: Desire

Bellamy stood at his worktable, bent over his water basin with his eyes closed, hands gripping the sides of the table to steady himself as he fought the impulse to tear after her and prove to her how easily he could make her ask—maybe even beg—for what she wanted of him.

Easily.

"Shit…"

His whole body was on fire, now that he was caught fast in the grip of that impulse. Behind his closed eyes he saw her clearly, looking at him through her lashes, her gaze fastened on his mouth with an intensity and hunger he'd only seen directed elsewhere: when she wanted something, was hell bent on proving herself, or meeting a challenge. The trek to Mount Weather. The mission to the bunker. Her first shooting lesson. But never directed _at_ him. Never _because_ of him. Because she _wanted_ him.

And she did, didn't she? He thought with dark satisfaction, almost giddy with the realization. He wasn't wrong in that. He was never wrong when it came to that…

He should go after her. Follow her into her tent and give her what she'd been asking for in everything but words. A kiss to start, and then the heat of his mouth and hands right where she needed it most. He'd make her come—over and over and over again…

A throaty growl ripped past his teeth, and without stopping to think about it, he took hold of his water basin and emptied the remaining contents over his head. A harsh cry of shock followed, because the water was fucking cold, but he needed that slight pain to pull him back to reality. To keep his ground and stay right where he was—

Because as badly as he wanted to follow after her and continue what they'd started, he was well aware that she wasn't ready for it—not when she couldn't even acknowledge what had sparked between them, had to lie to back out of the situation, so she could run away.

That alone was enough to cool his blood, and he felt a resurgence of the frustration he'd felt when she'd lost her nerve and fled from the challenge in his eyes. She ran. She ran like a coward, and he would not follow—

Because he didn't chase after women. _They_—came to **him**. Just as his mother taught him: he didn't prowl for action, he didn't take what wasn't willingly offered, and he'd never coerce a reluctant woman, because reluctance was only a step away from outright refusal.

And if all of that wasn't enough, another part of him was seriously freaking out over this sudden…change between them.

But was it so sudden?

He'd always been aware of her—almost from the first moment he set eyes on her, when she'd tried to stop him from opening the door of the drop ship. When she'd come up to him the day after they landed, asking about his gun.

_I'm here for __**you**__ …_

He remembered how his breath stopped when he'd heard her say those words, convinced for one wild, heated moment that she'd meant something entirely different. He'd turned his head sharply to look at her, meeting her gaze with his own, everything and everyone, even his sister, forgotten, faded to background. He was certain that in the next breath she was going to ask him for a word alone—an excuse to seek the privacy necessary for sex—so they could have a quick fuck in the woods or in the top level of the drop ship. He was ready to follow her anywhere she wanted, if that was the case—but instead she asked about his gun.

Disappointed, but intrigued, he'd shown it to her all right, tucked as it was in the waistband of his cargos, lifting his shirt instead of removing it with his hands, giving in to the absurd desire to flash her a little skin in the process, hoping she'd forget about the gun once she'd gotten a good look at him.

_See this, Baby? _He'd thought. _All yours, if you want it…and maybe the gun, too_.

But she'd asked him along on this pointless rescue mission for some kid instead, and just as he was about to refuse her with a few hard words to inform her that he was nobody's errand boy, she proceeded to hand him his balls on a platter when she pointed out that he would look like a coward for refusing, and who would follow him then?

Right for the balls. That was his Clarke.

And if he were honest with himself, he'd been attracted to her from day one. Day one, the moment she first spoke to him. The tone of command in her voice—_Don't open that door!_—that only grew with every passing hour of their acquaintance and with every word she spoke, accompanied by an uncommon intelligence and political genius. That day—only their second full day on the ground, she'd read him and his motivations like an open book, and with one masterstroke threatened his position among them, his growing power, and nearly toppled him from his throne in a bloodless coup.

So he'd had little choice but to follow her; burning, burning mad, but intrigued, alert to her every move and nuance, his eyes tracking her with predatory vigilance, plotting her fall from grace, the pure, untouchable, Golden Princess.

He snorted at that, rousing himself from dark reminiscences of his Miltonic beginnings, his quest for control and power. It didn't work, obviously. Time to stop thinking about it, because it wasn't helping his present situation one bit.

_That way lies madness, Blake. _

_Turn the fuck around_, he scolded himself, because _fuck,_ he was sick, for these recollections, much as they shamed him now—he had changed—they'd all changed—turned him on something fierce. It's a wonder that in those early days he hadn't knocked her over the head with a rock and dragged her off into the woods to have his way with her. Over and over again, in as many positions as he wished, as many times as he wished, until she was sobbing and incoherent in pleasure beneath him, twisting, writhing…

He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw so tight a tendon popped in his neck, but he was too far gone to react to the slight pain, to break himself away from this new assault on his control. His grip on the worktable tightened until it creaked beneath his hands, threatening to crack down the middle, his knuckles white and strained, the veins of his strong, broad hands standing out in sharp relief as he gave in, fell into his dark desires willingly, eagerly.

For he pictured her now with her lush thighs spread open beneath his palms, her soft skin trembling and sensitive to his every touch, every caress as he pinned her down, trapped and helpless beneath his hungry eyes and salivating mouth. He would part the lips of her pussy and watch them open like the skin of ripe peach, revealing the silvery shine of her hot, wet folds, part them until her saw the tight hole of her cunt, the entrance to heaven. He would blow on it, and watch as it twitched and grasped at this teasing ghost of intrusion like a hungry little mouth puckering for more.

And he would give it to her. He'd dive down and spear her through with the length of his tongue, fast and merciless, twisting his tongue in a tight circle, the better to taste the rounded walls of slick muscle, his nose buried deep in her folds, nudging against her clit with every turn and twist of his head.

He groaned aloud, the sound that emerged from him coming deep from his groin, from the base of his tightened balls that pulsed in tune with the beat of his heart, a sound more of pain than pleasure, pain due to need and banked desire, long denied and repressed.

He wasn't aware that he'd moved, that he'd let go of the table and fell to his knees, tearing open his fly to release his burning length. It sprung from its prison of cloth to smack against the flat plain of his stomach, the tip weeping and slick. He wrapped his hand around his girth and hissed, the pleasure from that slight touch so sharp and unexpected that it stopped him for a moment, almost tore him out of his fantasy, his eyes opening half mast, only to close again a moment later as he gathered moisture from the tip of his cock with a sweep of his thumb and began to spread it over the head and down the length of his erection, this lubrication easing the friction of his touch just enough to tug another sharp groan from his tightened throat as a jolt of pleasure rocked him from root to tip and his cock throbbed in his hand.

Because now she had her hands buried deep in his hair, coiled tight around her knuckles as she gripped it so hard it tore at his scalp—but he didn't mind the abuse, the pain, he welcomed it, pulling his tongue from her cunt to run the flat, broad length of it from her hole to throbbing clit, pulling her flesh apart so he could lash at the little pebble with the tip of his tongue, chase it as it rolled back and forth, tried to slide away from the force of his strokes.

"_Please, Bellamy_…" she was begging, rolling her hips in increasingly tight circles against his mouth, tugging at his head to angle it precisely against her aching clit, "_please…oh please…_"

He broke away to look down at her clit just once to watch it jump between his thumbs before he took it into his mouth and latched on, sucking it hard between the tight seal of his lips, teasing it with the barest edge of his teeth.

Clarke screamed and her hips rocketed up from the floor to mash hard against his face, his hands now cupping her ass to hold her steady against the assault of his mouth.

His strokes were coming hard and fast now, a tight and fast grip down the length of his cock, only to open and twist at the head, the edge of his thumb circling the sensitive ridge beneath the circumcised tip. His other hand was buried in the depths of his pants, cupping his balls and rolling them in the base of his palm, panting now from the sharp throb of pleasure every stroke brought him.

"_Fuck_…" the word was torn from between his teeth, the syllables elongated and stretched from the heavy exhale of his breath, the last one leaving his lips in a tight clip of sound, almost echoing in the stillness of his tent.

"_Clarke_…"

Another word, torn from his lips without his consent, his conscious control, that final, troublesome syllable again resonating in the stillness from the sharp clack of his teeth, followed by a heavy grunt of pleasure as his hips jerked and twisted in counterpoint to the motion of his hand.

And once he had her tight little clit in his mouth, he would pull one hand from beneath her, turning his palm upward, pressing his index and middle fingers together and thrusting them inside her cunt, in and out and around in long, hard sweeps, the pads of his fingers curling against the roof of her vulva, searching for that spongy patch, that sweet spot.

And once he found it she would jolt like a livewire against him, her legs and torso locking into place as she stiffened against him, crying out, sobbing, whining as her orgasm tore through her, and just as her walls started to twitch and grasp at his fingers, he'd pull them out and replace them with his tongue, all the better to feel it as it sucked and pulled at him—

"**Fuck**!" Bellamy shouted, as his orgasm tore through him with a swift and sudden force, his hips bucking hard against the cage of his grasping hand as his come spurted in long, thick ropes from the pulsing tip of his cock, falling in streams over his fingers, his knuckles, a hot, sticky glob of it landing on his chest, and god—even the edge of his chin before he fell back onto the hard dirt floor of his tent, gasping and wheezing as his body continued to shake, to lurch under the grip of his hand. He continued to stroke, though softly, with the barest touch and pressure because it almost hurt, but it felt too good to stop. A sharp whine was pulled from his throat one last time before he finally gave out, pulling his hand from his flesh and laying back, gathering breath.

His pulse was racing like mad, his jugular a thick cable at the base of his throat that throbbed as he sucked in lungful after lungful of air.

Holy, Mother-Fucking _Shit_. He felt like he was gonna pass out any second.

What the _fuck_ was that?

Yet even as this thick euphoria suffused his limbs it was poisoned by a swift and sudden embarrassment, the terrible heat of humiliation for what he'd just done, what had just happened. What he had allowed to happen.

There was no shame in masturbation—it wasn't that—it was the fact that he was lying on the floor like a broken toy, legs bent at odd angles beneath him, one long, muscled arm thrown over his flat stomach, fingers sticky and wet with come, the other thrown over his eyes in a helpless gesture that suggested a damsel-like helplessness against the onslaught of emotion that he felt and couldn't process as it rocked through him in contrasting waves—aching need, self-pity, shock, denial, giddy self-congratulations (because, fuck, the sheer amount of come he'd managed to produce), and an empty, hollow grief because it was all a _fantasy_ for fuck's sake!

He'd been turned inside out and blown apart like so much stardust in a supernova because he'd jacked off to the mere thought of eating her out until she screamed. He'd tugged and pulled at his cock with the fervor of a 14 year-old that had just discovered porn because he'd allowed himself to indulge his imagination for a little bit. Just a little bit, was all he intended at the start, nothing more. He'd done it hundreds of times with dozens of other pretty girls as the impetus, the inspiration, but those subjects had remained harmless little fantasies that stirred his blood and whetted his appetite for the real deal (which wasn't hard to secure, to be honest, once he set his mind on it) but a fantasy had never taken hold of him so quickly, so completely that he lost himself to it until he was it's little, panting bitch, jacking like he was gonna die if he didn't come, and come hard. This was all over a _fantasy_…

Of course, it didn't have to be.

_Go get her_, he ordered himself. _Clean up, zip up, go after her, dumbass_. _She wants it. _She was broadcasting the signals. He could practically smell it on her.

Of course, he'd acted like an ass the moment she'd subtly refused him by stepping away—but he knew it wasn't truly rejection on her part, more like shock and confusion at the sudden (for her, anyway) pull of her attraction. She'd trembled at the mere brush of his fingers along her arm; her eyes had been glued to his mouth as if they were the most delectable sweets that she was eager to taste and suck and devour—

He groaned at the recollection. He'd loved the weight of her eyes on him, their hungry pull. He could admit it now. He'd craved it, in fact, for a long, long time. So when she'd stepped back, uncertain, somehow afraid of him, he'd been stung. Deeper and harder than he thought possible. No girl had ever done this to him before. Dug in so completely. So he barked, and growled, and got all manly and stupid, and sent her running.

But she said that she wanted it. That she might ask for it. Well, he could make her ask…one kiss, one practiced touch, and he'd get it.

But that wasn't the way he did things. He was his mother's son, and he didn't hunt down a girl he wanted. She had to come to him, willingly and freely.

And she would, wouldn't she? Sooner or later, she'd said.

But he knew Clarke. She was stubborn. A veritable rock.

Maybe she'd never come to him, and he would die wanting.


	3. Chapter 3: Denial

Oh my god…did that _really_ just happen?

The night air was cool on her heated face as Clarke drifted across camp towards her tent, barely aware of her feet moving over the solid ground, so lost in the sensation of heat that lingered yet on her skin, of heat that blazed along her upper arm, marking exactly where he had touched her just moments before with a pulse of pleasure that traced and retraced the path of his fingers so surely that she was certain that if she were to lift her sleeve she would find a mark there, an illumined trail…

Moments before, she was standing so close to him, only a breath away from that tempting, wicked mouth, from that smug, crooked curve that she longed to trace with her tongue. She wanted to press her lips to his and feel it move and bend beneath hers, to sweep her tongue inside his mouth and taste him, devour him, to suck his bottom lip and…

A helpless noise, caught between a whimper and a sigh, escaped her then, and she slowed to a halt in the middle of the camp, tilting her head back to gaze at the blazing, starry sky, as riotous and scattered as her thoughts. For several moments, she simply stood there, shivering and helpless and lost.

She shook her head sharply. This is ridiculous! It was just a…kiss.

No. She shook her head slowly. That wasn't right.

It was just the mingling of breath, the…_promise_ of a kiss.

The promise of a kiss, and the simple caress of his fingers on her bare skin, and she felt like nothing would ever be the same between them.

"Oh my god…"

She closed her eyes, mortified as her last words to him replayed, with agonizing sound and detail, in her head.

_I do. I really do_. Had she _really_ said that? Confessing, without so many words, that she wanted it (_**sex**__, come on, Clarke_) that she wanted him. Because that's precisely what he'd been asking, and that's precisely what she had answered.

Her hands rose to her face in a vain effort to control the heat that raced through her, embarrassed at what she had said and done. Wasn't this just a harmless little attraction? Hadn't it been _just_ that, and nothing more, only a few short moments before she'd stepped into his tent to have a few words with him about cutting rations? What had happened to her intelligence, her rationality, her self-possession? How could she go from a having a simple discussion with him to…to this?

A trembling girl standing under the stars, fighting the urge to run back to his tent this very minute and claim the kiss that was so sweetly, wickedly promised?

Okay, _okay_. So he was…somewhat handsome (_gorgeous)_ and she'd noticed. _God_, she'd noticed, but how had it changed gears so fast?

She shook her head, struggling to clear her mind of her racing thoughts. All he did was splash a little water over his face and neck and she was suddenly a pliable mass of nerves. All instinct and hormones and bated breath because a cute (_gorgeous_) guy was making eyes at her. Hadn't she been there and done that already? _Big_ mistake.

The longer she stood there the more her thoughts cleared and the more she realized how badly she had responded to his mild (and truly, for Bellamy, that was subtle) flirting, sending mixed signals, confusing him _and_ herself.

They had finally reached this perfect balance in their relationship as leaders, as friends—they trusted each other, understood each other, and operated almost as one mind—and now she was threatening to unravel it all because she couldn't be honest with herself and how she felt. Couldn't be honest with him. She was mucking it up with this stupid, ridiculous attraction, that probably didn't matter to him anyway, because, _come on_. All he had to do was flash a smile, turn up the heat in those dark, bottomless eyes of his, (and take off his shirt) and he could have any girl he wanted.

Including _her_, apparently.

And when he called her on it, she'd run. Run away like a coward. No. Just…no.

This wasn't the kind of person, the kind of woman, she was going to be. Sending confusing signals, refusing to acknowledge the simple biological truth, to own up to her needs, her desires, however inappropriate or misplaced. She wasn't a woman who played games.

Time to grow up.

Before she realized what she was doing, before she was even aware of the decision to do so, her feet were moving. She turned sharply on her heels and made her way back to Bellamy's tent. They were going to talk about this—_now_—and straighten everything out between them. Nip this in the bud before it became something destructive. She wasn't going to prevaricate and deny her attraction for him but admit to it freely, and then tell him that wasn't going any further than this…it was just hormones and biology, and nothing else.

But she shivered once more as the memory of that soft touch assaulted her nerves all over again, her skin vibrating and heating with the phantom trace of his touch. She stopped for a moment, gathering breath, and wrapped a hand around her upper arm, closing her fingers over that traitorous square of flesh in a vain attempt to still its clamoring.

Her feet stilled, and then stopped altogether.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He'd _barely_ touched her and she was a mess.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to stillness, to calm. She needed to get back to the Clarke that pulled knives from flesh and stitched up wounds, the Clarke that shot a gun into the air and demanded calm. She could talk to him about her attraction to him; she would get it out in the open so it wouldn't fester. They needed to work together as a team, and they couldn't bring sex into it. It just wouldn't work. So she had to talk to him now. She could _do _this.

Another moment and she was moving again, and before long there it was, the red and white canvas of his tent, made from the heavy fabric of the dropship parachutes. The best material on the ground, naturally, heavy and waterproof, almost warm on the cold nights—and it was his and his alone. He'd simply taken it for himself only hours after they'd landed on this savage, beautiful, god-forsaken planet, and screw the rest of them. _Whatever the hell we (I) want_.

She braced herself for the coming confrontation, taking a deep breath before bending to duck beneath the entrance to his tent, until she abruptly paused—

Because a soft sound, wholly unexpected but instantly arresting, caught her ear. A low, rumbling sound that was pleasure and pain at once—a breathy groan.

Heat flooded her face and her brows rose to her hair line in shock as she stood there, utterly rooted to the spot as if her legs had turned to stone, mouth falling open as the sound repeated, unmistakable this time. It was a deep, throaty sound of pleasure, and it raced through her chest like a shock wave and set her heart racing. It was Bellamy…and he was…_moaning_.

"_Fuck…yessssss…sweet little pussy_…" came the heated whisper, and her mouth ran dry, a hard throb blooming all at once between her legs at the rough, dark sound of his voice, steeped in lust, territorial and demanding, gentle and reverent and arrogant all at once.

This couldn't be happening.

Her breath left her lungs in a whoosh and she suddenly felt dizzy, absolutely helpless to what she was hearing, unable to move, to breathe, to think beyond what was happening behind the heavy fall of fabric under her hands. Then a moment later there came another sound, separate from the first, low and faint but unmistakable—a liquid slide, the sound of flesh on flesh, moving in a perfect, escalating rhythm, rough, fast and regular, punctuated by dark, greedy, masculine grunts of pleasure—

Oh my _GOD_—

She spun on her heels and raced away as fast as she could, trying to mask the sound of her steps even as she ran like hell was on her heels, eager to put as much distance between herself and his tent, though no distance would ever be enough.

She didn't stop until she was beyond the wall, having run out of the gate (and how the hell did she get past the guards?!) and into the blue-black canopy of the thick forest surrounding their camp. She didn't stop until she was nearly a hundred feet from the wall, stopping to gather breath before her heart exploded, lungs expanding and contracting like a bellows. She was staggering from the shock, reeling from the realization that _she'd just overheard Bellamy Blake having sex_—having sex with someone, some girl, and she would never be able to forget what had just happened.

She wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole—

How long she stood there, bent over with her hands braced on her knees, pulling air into her starving lungs and pushing it out, the smell of dark soil and wet rot filling her nose, shaking with cold and shock, she didn't know, and it wasn't until she felt a drop of something wet and warm fall onto the back of her hand that she realized she was crying.

_He was with someone! I __**just**__ left him, and he was…FUCKING some girl—_

What else could it be? She knew what she'd heard, even as utter shock rooted her to the spot, the whole moment so surreal, so unexpected, she almost couldn't believe it was happening. And why—why did it _matter_ anyway?

This was Bellamy, after all. He of the revolving bed partners and endless conquests. At least, he had been all that after they'd first landed. But that was a long time ago now—or so it seemed. Wasn't it?

It was just so hard to believe that he'd been screwing some girl. He'd been…subdued lately. More business than pleasure. The gossip and giggling and flirting had certainly stopped, in any case. It wasn't as bad as it had been before, not that she cared or bothered to pay attention to that sort of thing, of course.

But still—how could he have found a partner so quickly? She'd just left his tent moments before, hadn't she? She shook her head, confused, because she wasn't sure how long she had lingered in debate under the stars before she had decided to go back and talk to him—but it couldn't have been _that_ long, right?

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, furiously blinking away the tears that lingered. This was it. There was no question now. This wouldn't go any further between them. She refused to waste even a moment more on this pointless, destructive indulgence of emotion. So she was attracted to the bastard, and had accidentally revealed herself to him in a moment of weakness—that was a far as it would ever go. This moment was the end of that madness, and she would never allow it to affect her again.

She stood up, straightening her back and gathering her composure. Time to head back to camp. First thing, she was going to find out who was on watch, and ream him (or her) a new one, because she'd just walked past the gate and out into the woods without any trouble, without the guards raising a single alarm, and that was unacceptable.

Heads were gonna _roll._

When Bellamy woke the next morning, he was as sore as hell.

He gingerly threw his legs over the edge of his mattress and slowly rose to his feet, trying not to wince at the burn that lanced through his groin when he moved. His poor cock felt bruised. Beaten…

Then a moment later he realized, with a heavy flush of embarrassment, that that was _exactly_ what had been done to it last night, and by his own hand no less. _That's what you get for jacking it without any lube, _he thought ruefully, and because of his carelessness he'd be feeling it for the next couple of days, that's for sure.

As he pulled on his pants and boots, reached for his shirt and jacket, he tried, and failed, to forget what had been the cause of his rather sensitive injury, but it was like his body was determined that he remember, in vivid and excruciating detail, images of tangled blonde hair, pale thighs, and a pink, swollen pussy.

_Fuck._

He fought even harder to suppress the phantom memory of a tight, desperate grip in his hair, a grip accompanied by a lot of sweet, pitiful begging, begging with lots of _Oh God's _and _Please, Bellamy's_ intertwined with helpless sobs of pleasure, as a shaking, sweating, trembling princess came apart beneath him.

But he failed pretty spectacularly in that as well.

Damn. This was gonna be a problem now, wasn't it?

He closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh, absolutely and utterly frustrated with himself for his complete lack of self-control, for his ultimately empty and humiliating indulgence in a quick wank—like it solved anything. In fact, it only made it worse, because he couldn't seem to stop thinking about it. About _her_. He'd had a better handle on everything yesterday, before all this happened. Now he was like some horny kid with a monster crush on the cute little blonde next door.

And he was feeling a little sorry for himself, too. Jerking off just wasn't something he did, or needed to do on a regular basis, because he'd never had trouble getting pussy when he wanted it. Fuck—he could get a girl without even trying, sometimes two, if he threw in a little effort. When he'd first landed here, it certainly hadn't been _all_ that hard to get some action…

He paused near his worktable, a dreamy sort of smile bending the corners of his mouth as a sudden rush of memories assailed him, as he thought about his first week on the ground, as he thought about _them_—

Rowen and Michaela.

His smile widened into a grin as treasured memories from that night momentarily broke through his early morning pity party, and before long he heaved another sigh, this one a trifle more self-satisfied than the first. _Damn. _He shook his head as his grin took on a wicked curl. _What a night!_

With a chuckle, tucking those memories away for another time, because he had responsibilities to attend to, he shuffled over to his water basin to have a quick wash before heading out to the wall and morning patrol when he realized that he didn't have any water—

Because he'd dumped it all over his head last night in an effort to keep himself from running after Clarke.

Shit.

_Clarke._

And just like that, all his self pity and humiliation came back to him, because despite the lingering ache between his legs from skin rubbed raw, he felt a pulse of heat lance through his spent flesh, heat that suddenly and undeniably longed for the soothing touch of just _one_ girl, one amazing, infuriating, _incredible_ girl—

Bellamy forcefully cut off that line of thought and cast his eyes upward, as if seeking divine intervention.

Yesterday, he'd been _fine_.

He and the Princess were co-leaders doing their co-leader thing. He thought she was hot, (okay, damn hot) but he kept it to himself. It's not like he noticed it. Much. So he thought about her naked sometimes. Thought about being naked with her. He'd never acted in it. He was perfectly capable of doing his thing while she did hers; they talked and argued collaborated, laid down the law and made sure that everybody followed it. At the end of the day, she went to her tent and he went to his (usually alone—no, in fact, he was _always_ alone) and life, such as it was, carried on.

So what had changed? Why was it so much harder for him to return to the role of dutiful solider, the respected second-in-command, the revered co-leader? He thought for a moment more, and then he knew.

_Clarke_. Clarke was the reason.

Last night, she had followed him into his tent, and at some point in their conversation she'd suddenly started looking at him—looking at him like a _man_ and not just a functionary. It was as simple as that. She'd never looked at him that way before, with need clouding her eyes. Those same eyes that darkened to cobalt as they traced eagerly over his face, his mouth, his body. When he touched her, a simple sweep of his fingers on bare skin, she started to shiver beneath him.

Another heavy sigh escaped him. It didn't seem like he was capable of much more than that right now: heavy, regrettable breaths and self-pity. He trudged back to his bed and sank down onto the mattress, hands braced on his knees, dropping his head in his hands while he tried to gather his composure. He scrubbed at the slight stubble peppering his chin and ran his hands through his messy curls as if these action alone would return order to his thoughts, would set him back to rights.

The difference was that as just as he wanted Clarke, she suddenly wantedhim _back_. Yesterday and all the days before she had only looked at him with a sort of reluctant respect. Amused indifference. Exasperation.

Now she looked at him like she wanted to eat him alive.

He rose to his feet, suddenly determined to go and find her, to talk about what had happened between them yesterday. He would apologize for his behavior, his harsh words, and then he would promise that nothing would change between them. That they would get past this, and forget it ever happened.

He paused at the entrance to his tent, startled at his own thoughts because they were so unexpected. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. There was something happening between them, and as much as he wanted to explore it, as much as he wanted her, he couldn't allow it to happen. One guilty jerk while thinking of her and he was already a mess, unable to think of anything else. If he were to really go after her, if they started having sex—(and here he swallowed hard when his mouth ran dry) things would certainly fall apart between them. _He_ would fall apart.

And that couldn't happen. Lives literally depended on it.

He nodded to himself as his resolve took shape. He and Clarke would never be anything more than friends and co-leaders. It was for the best.


	4. Chapter 4: Determination

"Hey…have you seen Clarke around?"

Honda shook his head in an emphatic _no, _stomping his feet a little to fight off the early morning chill seeping into his boots while he stood his post at the East quadrant of the wall. To his credit, he didn't turn his eyes away from the dark patch of woods just beyond, constantly scanning the tree line just like Bellamy had taught him.

_Hmmph. At least one of these idiots is taking this shit seriously._

"Wouldn't _want_ to see her either," the younger man continued after a beat, shifting his rifle to lie across his back as he blew into the cradle of his hands in an effort to warm them as well before finally sparing Bellamy a quick side-eye, a weird sort of expression on his face, an odd cross between amusement and terror. "_No, siree_."

This was interesting.

"Why," he asked, instantly intrigued by this strange reaction, and while his princess had that effect, as he was fond of saying, he didn't think he'd _ever_ seen any of the kids afraid of her before. "What's up?"

The younger man shook his head, bit his lip in hesitation before he replied. "I dunno, man. I got here just before Nelson left, and only caught the tail end of it. But Momma is _mad_, I tell you. Fighting mad."

"Huh?" Bellamy snorted in surprise, eyebrows shooting upwards towards his dark messy hair. Of all the titles his princess could claim, he'd never heard _that_ one before. "_Momma_?" he repeated, incredulously. "Did you just call her _Momma?_"

Honda cast him another sideways glance, seeming a trifle embarrassed at what he had just let slip. He shifted nervously on his feet, and then cleared his throat with a fidgety sort of cough. "Did I say that? Must've misunderstood me." He dropped his eyes from Bellamy's intent gaze and resumed his study of the tree line, as if his sudden dedication to guard duty would deter the other man from this line of conversation.

From the corner of his eyes, Honda watched as one dark brow lifted skeptically in inquiry. "_Momma_?" Bellamy persisted.

Honda shrugged, sounded another little nervous cough. "Forget it, man," he started after a beat of thick silence. "Just something we call her sometimes. Like when we call you—" and then he broke off abruptly, and went back to noisily clearing his throat like it was lined with ash, probably alerting every Grounder within a mile radius of their camp's location.

Bellamy narrowed his eyes at the younger man, but let the subject drop because he had a certain princess to locate. There would be time to resume this interesting conversation later. He was just about to clear off in search of her when _another_ interesting choice of words stopped him, and he hung back to ask, "_mad_? What do you mean, mad?"

And now the kid seemed eager to talk, now that the subject of their conversation had moved onto safer ground (and Bellamy _would_ get back to that 'Momma' business at another time, you bet 'ya).

"Did I say _mad_?" the boy said, warming to his subject. "More like _Epically Pissed_." Bellamy could certainly hear the capitals implied in that remark. "She slammed Nelson with a _month_ of latrine duty—" they both winced, "and _then_ cut him down to half-rations for the next two weeks."

"Woah." This was bad, and Bellamy was instantly troubled. What was going on?

"I'll take your _Woah_ and raise you a solid _**Damn**_." Again with the capitals. "Girl was gunning for blood, I tell you. So I kept my mouth shut. You don't mess with Momma when she's mad, you know."

In his haste to share gossip, it seemed like Honda had forgotten himself, because he was back to that 'Momma' business again, but Bellamy let it drop for the second time. It seemed that Clarke was really angry about something—scratch that—_Epically Pissed_, and he couldn't help but be concerned. What had happened? He needed to find her right away and find out, because something bad was breaking or had already broke, by the sound of it. Time to go be the solid Second-In-Command once more…

"Yeah…well don't let that concern you so much as what you're doing here," and Bellamy gestured to the wall and the thick cover of trees surrounding them. "Stay vigilant. Keep your eyes sharp and your gun hot. This isn't playtime out here. If I hear you've been slackin' off, you're gonna answer to me."

Bellamy frowned at his choice of words, his closing remark. He hadn't meant to sound so…parental.

"You got it, Poppa!" Honda replied, and threw in a little salute.

Yeah. He'd definitely have to re-think his phraseology after this.

With a little nod of farewell, he left in search of Miller. If anyone knew where Clarke was, it was Miller.

"No idea, dude. Last I heard, she slammed Petrovic with a _month_—"

"Of latrine duty," Bellamy finished, frowning at this development. First Nelson, and now Petrovic? What was going on? "And let me guess," he added. "She cut him down to half-rations, right?"

At Miller's nod, his sense of unease grew.

Something was definitely up, and Clarke was truly MIA if _Miller_ didn't know where she was. Then a disturbing thought occurred to him. "Hey—she didn't leave camp for any reason, did she? She was talking about making a run for something called Steeplebush. Did she and Monty—"

Miler shook his head, looking thoughtful. "No…Monty and Jasper are working on another rain barrel, last I saw." Then he tilted his head as another thought occurred to him. "But I _did_ run into Octavia, and she said that Clarke was chewing out the kids at the skinning station about sloppy work. Said she was ranting about botulism or something, and said _they_ would be cut to half-rations if they kept improperly butchering the rabbit carcasses…"

Wow, she was really on a kick with this half-rations business. _Way to take my idea of a punishment, Princess, and run it into the ground._

With a nod to Miller, he left in search of Octavia. Nothing got past his little sister. If anyone knew where Clarke was, it was Octavia.

"Don't ask _me_," Octavia snapped, throwing a long swath of chestnut hair over her shoulders with an angry jerk of her head.

She was currently intestines-deep in a rabbit carcass, skinning it with all the grace and care of a back-alley butcher.

"As long as she's not in _my_ face, I don't give a damn. Got my marching orders this morning, let me tell you."

Little bits of fluffy fur were swirling and floating around the edge of her knife in a miniature snowfall.

"_I_ have to stay here and make sure that these, and I quote, 'idiots' do it right—skinning that is, because suddenly _I'm_ the resident expert."

After a particularly vicious yank of her knife, a clot of blood flew through the air and landed with a soft plop just under her left eye. With a snarl she wiped it away with the back of her hand and smeared it over her cheek, leaving an angry gash of red behind.

"How the _hell_ that happened, _I'll _never know. It's not like I ever _asked _for any of —_"_

Bellamy backed away slowly.

Surely, Bellamy thought wearily, if _anyone _knew where Clarke was, Raven would know.

Had to know.

Seeing as how she was always looking around for Spacewalker, and Spacewalker was _always_ looking around for Clarke, (and hell if he'd talk to Spacewalker) that meant that Clarke had to be _somewhere_ nearby…

He'd been all over camp (and back again), and hadn't seen so much as a glimpse of her. He was more than a little concerned by this point.

So when he found Raven in the Comm Tent, bent over the radio components, he paused a moment to consider his first words. Seems he needn't have bothered, because she beat him to it.

"She's not here," the mechanic announced the moment he drew breath, not bothering to look up from her work, where she was presently soldering something to something else. "Now get out."

Bellamy's eyebrows rose at her tone. Seems like Clarke wasn't the only angry woman in their camp.

"Sorry for the intrusion," he answered, pausing at the entrance and crossing his arms over his chest, deliberately softening his tone and praying for patience. Raven was his last resort, but this would take some diplomacy, so he changed tack: "how's the radio repair going?"

They'd lost radio contact with the Ark about a week ago, after a series of heavy storms swept through the area, about a month after the success of Spacewalker's surgery, and Raven was determined to get it back as soon as possible.

"Fine."

It was more a growl than a word. Seems like their genius mechanic just wasn't in the mood to talk. "Like I said," she continued, flipping down the visor on her welding mask, "she's not here."

Bellamy sighed, but decided not to push this further. He knew that Raven and the Spacewalker were still on bad terms with each other, even though the breakup had happened more than a month ago, and apparently the wound still smarted.

"Okay…thanks for the info." And took one step back before pausing, and added, "We really appreciate how hard your working in this, Raven, but you don't need to kill yourself over it. If you need any help—or anything at all—please ask."

Silence. A tight back. With a stifled sigh he backed away, not sure where he was headed next, but he knew that he wouldn't stop looking until he found her. This was getting a little absurd, because really, how could she just disappear in a camp this size? Not unless she really had left the camp, and the idea that Clarke had simply taken off without telling anyone caused a knot of panic to ball up at the base of his throat. Maybe he needed to organize a search party…

"Hey…"Raven suddenly called out, turning slightly in her chair to meet Bellamy's concerned gaze at last. She was pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Their genius wasn't doing too good, by the looks of it. And despite the urgency of his current situation, Bellamy found himself anxious to make sure that she was all right. "You good?" he asked.

Raven shrugged. "Not great. Let's leave it at that." She dropped her eyes for a moment and seemed to consider amending that answer before she gave a little shake of her head and brought her eyes back to his.

"I think she's on the roof of the drop ship. She likes to go there when she wants to be alone, or when she's pissed off about something. From what I hear, she's pretty pissed. Epically Pissed, in fact."

_Wow, news sure travels fast around here. _

Then Raven smirked, even as she winced sympathetically. "Poor Petrovic. Wouldn't want to be him right now. A _month_ of latrine duty…"

At Bellamy's raised brows Raven's smile widened just a little bit more. "What? You think I don't know what goes on in this camp? Got my nose buried in machine parts all the time? I listen. I watch. Besides that, never met a Russian that wasn't a damn good mechanic, and Petrovic's no exception."

"Glad to hear it." He really didn't now what else to say. He was on shaky ground with her after all the drama of her recent breakup with Spacewalker, and with all of her suppressed hostility towards Clarke. While it had all happened more than two months ago, there was still a lot of bad feeling between the two former lovers, and this wasn't something he knew how to fix.

"Okay then…" he said, already backing out of the tent to leave Raven to her repairs, "hope everything's going alright." And then he had to reiterate. "If you need anything…just ask, okay?"

At her nod, Bellamy answered with a soft smile, then left her to tend to her repairs, both mechanical and personal.

The sun felt good, incredibly good on her bare skin. Clarke stretched her arms above her head and didn't stop until she felt a slight pop in her shoulders, and the lingering tension there eased at once. That done, she lay back down on the scratchy blanket she'd tossed onto the rooftop of the dropship as a makeshift bed, closed her eyes, and seriously considered staying up here forever.

No one to bother her here. No incompetent animal butchers. No temperamental, dark-haired beauties with a sharp tongue telling her _don't take it out on me, Princess_, sounding too much like another dark-haired beauty for her liking. No irresponsible, duty-shirking guards.

Her jaw tightened.

Damn Nelson and Petrovic, anyway. Nelson had left his post early, and Petrovic was late, which is why she was able to get past the guard last night and slip out into the surrounding woods undetected. Now that she thought of it, a month of latrine duty didn't seem like enough…

_Wonder what he'll say, when he finds out._

Not that she gave a damn. She was tired of being the responsible one, the practical one, the dutiful one. If _he_ could do whatever the hell he wanted, find somebody to fuck at a moment's notice, then _she_ could certainly claim a few hours for herself where no one could find her.

There came a rusty squeal as someone opened the hatch door behind her.

_Fuck._

She almost opened her eyes, but she caught herself at the last moment, keeping them stubbornly closed. She briefly considered grabbing her shirt and slipping it back on, but some devilish, destructive impulse stopped her for doing so. She was laying on her back soaking up the sun in her little black bra, which was sort like a bikini top—nothing scandalous there. In fact, she was _tired_ of playing it safe. Tired of modesty and hesitation and cowardice. If _he _could be reckless, then so could she. See if she wasn't. Let whomever it was get an eyeful.

As the heavy footsteps drew near, she steeled herself for the coming encounter, shaking with nerves despite her resolve. She was _topless_, for heaven's sake, and surely—

The steps faltered suddenly, and an awkward shuffle was followed by a muffled curse. A muffled curse delivered in a very familiar, dark baritone that set her skin on fire even as the more terrible fire of her anger tightened her jaw and the muscles of her back, her shoulders, her neck. It would _have _to be him, wouldn't it?

"Clarke?" he began hesitantly, voice gavel-rough. "_There_ you are…I've been looking for you…could you, uh…" Another shuffle, something dark muttered under his breath that she couldn't make out, before he continued in tight sort of squeak. "Could you p-put on a shirt?"

_Now_ she opened her eyes, and looked over at him to see him standing beside her with his eyes averted, looking everywhere but down at her nearly-naked torso. He was shifting minutely from foot to foot, and she watched the thick bob of his Adam's apple with a sort of distant fascination. She was surprised at how brazen she suddenly felt. She felt no embarrassment at all, actually.

She was too pissed for that.

"No—" she answered succinctly, the word almost cutting her teeth with the force of it. "You said you wanted to talk, so talk. I've got things to do here—" she gestured at the sun, the clouds, the beautiful woodland surrounding them. "And I'd like to get back to it."

He finally turned his eyes towards her and met her gaze, his square jaw set in hard lines, his dark eyes narrowed with impatience, his thick, impossibly muscled arms crossed over his broad chest…

_Dammit_.

"What, exactly, is 'this'?" he answered, mimicking her vague gesture, broad hand sweeping in an arc in front of him. She noticed that his voice sounded a trifle steadier…a lot steadier in fact. Perhaps even rock solid. And while he held her gaze for a beat without flinching, he dropped his eyes from her face and swept them over her torso, bold as you please, lingering on the swell of her breasts before working back up to her eyes. She tried not to squirm.

"Sunbathing," she shot back, determined to keep a tremor out of her voice as his gaze dropped back to her chest once more, lingering even longer this time around, slowly burning a path across her skin as he mapped and traced the curves on display.

She swallowed hard, then defiantly closed her eyes, equally determined to prove that she couldn't care less that he was currently standing beside her, looming over her, actually, ogling her breasts with an amused, lascivious gleam that was threatening to break her new-found courage any second. So she closed her eyes to fight that heated gaze, to gather her courage.

"Hmmph," came the rumble-more-than-reply beside her. She felt him shift, heard the rustle of fabric before he was suddenly seated on the rooftop beside her. Her eyes popped open in surprise only to find that he had removed his shirt as well, and was currently stretching the long, thick muscles of his shoulders and back with a muffled groan, working out the kinks. Her eyes were helpless, and they moved with greedy quickness over the sculpted shape of his pectorals, down the indented line between them, to the ridged expanse of his abdomen. Her mouth ran dry.

Done stretching, he lay down beside her.

"Mind if I join you?"

They lay beside each other in a thick, heavy silence, both trying to pretend that the air wasn't vibrating between them with an electric crackle. She could feel the length and heat of his torso beside hers, and when he shifted to cradle the back of his head with his hands, she felt the hard edge of his bicep bump into hers. His breath hitched, and she shivered.

She bolted upright, turning to look at him over her shoulder.

"Let's get something straight, Blake."

From his prone position beside her, Bellamy arched his brows and shot her a questioning look. The surname thing was new, but he kind of liked it. Especially when she said it with a healthy amount of bitchery in her voice. In fact, he liked this new, hardened version of Clarke a whole lot, if his dick had anything to say about it, stiff as it was, currently at attention and eagerly waiting _its_ marching orders.

"This isn't going to happen." She threw him another vague gesture, this time aimed at his body, his groin—where, he couldn't help but notice, her eyes lingered far longer than necessary, her mouth dropping open in a little _oh_ before she snapped it shut and tore her eyes away from him. Presenting him with her pale, smooth back. He mourned the loss of those pretty tits at once.

Bellamy bolted upright beside her, catching her eyes with his burning gaze. "Oh yes it is, Clarke, and you know it…"

His voice was like the slide of gravel over rock, and she felt it all through her bones.

Clarke spun towards him, barely having time to register the shock on his face as she set her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down to the rooftop, sliding a leg over his hips and pinning him to the heated surface, anchoring him firmly beneath her hips.

"Oh _yeah_?" She shot back, shoving at his chest in frustration, reveling in the sheer degree of shock on his face, the helpless sprawl of his hard body beneath hers, arms slack at his sides, eyes wide with disbelief. She growled and did it again, hearing the noise his back made when it thumped against the metal surface beneath them. Her anger from the night before was crashing through her, and she let it roll over her. Damn himanyway, _and_ that stupid bitch he was with last night. "This is one pussy you're _never_ gonna get."

But despite her words, she shifted and slammed her hips down hard against his, feeling a tight knot of heat right in the center of her legs that was begging for friction, for contact with his hard, hot body so solid under hers. Her hand slid from the curve of his shoulders to the hard ridge of his pectorals, her fingers curling into his skin, biting down in a tight grip and she started to circle and rock her hips against him.

"Shit…_Clarke…_" he breathed, and his hands shot up and gripped hard at her hips, pulling her tight against the thick bulge in his pants. He threw his head back and started to pant, the cords of his throat tightening with strain as he started to buck in counterpoint to her increasingly rapid thrusts. She was panting too, sharp breaths shooting past her teeth. The pressure was building fast and hard inside her, but it wasn't—it didn't quite—

He suddenly knocked his knee against the side of her thigh, nearly breaking her rhythm. She shoved at his chest and growled, irritated. "Stay _still_, damn it."

"No," he rasped, swallowing thickly in a vain effort to moisten his burning throat, still gasping for air as his thumbs dug into her hipbones, pulling her tighter against him. "Just…open your legs w-wider…_god…_come on, Baby…_shit_…"

Clarke begrudgingly did as he said, gasping suddenly at the new pressure, the new angle, her head falling forward toward his shoulders. Oh _yeah_…wider was better.

"Grind it…" he groaned, and now his voice was nearly breathless, "harder, Princess…_harder._"

At the sound of her nickname, uttered so thickly, so desperately, Clarke started to shake uncontrollably, her movements now erratic and haphazard. The pressure between her legs stretched and stretched, until it suddenly snapped. She sank towards him, her head falling into the crook of his shoulder as she shattered apart just above him, her mouth opening and closing as she gasped and panted from the waves of pleasure rocking through her, jerking against him several times before she slowed, her pulse thundering in her ears as she lay there, trying to come back together.

"Bellamy…" she whispered. Why did she feel like she was going to cry?

His hands left her hips and came up to cradle her face. When she looked into his eyes, she was surprised at what she saw there.

Need. Wonder. Shock.

"Clarke…" his voice was soft, unlike anything she'd ever heard before. His hands left her hips and buried themselves in her hair. He wound the heavy strands around his fingers and tugged her close, his mouth now a breath from hers. "_Clarke_," he groaned, before dragging her down closer—

Only to bolt the same moment she did, when they heard a distant _boom_ like a miniature bomb going off somewhere.

"_Claaaaaaaarke_!" Jasper was calling from somewhere in the heart of camp. "_CLAAAAARKE_! BELLLLLLAMY!"

She shot to her feet, bending for her shirt and tugging it on the next moment, shooting a worried glance at Bellamy, who had also staggered to his feet, scanning the campsite from their perch on the rooftop. He straightened when he saw something, his face going pale.

"It's from Raven's tent," he said, grabbing his shirt and pulling it on quickly. He started towards the hatch, panic tightening his throat. "Come on—" he reached back and grabbed her hand, tugging her along behind him.

"Oh my god, _Raven_—" Clarke cried, "hurry!"


	5. Chapter 5: Deliberation

"So let me get this straight," Bellamy was saying, holding a hand over his nose to block the smell. "When I said, 'oh my God, Jasper is blowing shit up,' you were, in fact, _literally_ blowing shit up."

Jasper shifted from one foot to another, nervously clearing his throat, looking back and forth between Clarke and Bellamy and their matching expressions. It was uncanny how the two were in sync; and what an expression—a combination of exasperation, incredulity, affection and humor. In fact, Mom and Dad looked like they were trying very, very hard not to laugh.

"I wasn't _blowing it up_—that was just an accident."

"What a load of crap, I say."

This from Raven, who was presently sporting a shit-eating grin (which considering the situation, was appropriate) whilst simultaneously pinching her nose to block the smell.

And Jasper couldn't help but notice the both of his leaders were standing quite a distance away from him. Upwind, in fact, trying not to gag from the smell.

This was certainly the most embarrassing moment of his, thus far, short life. He was covered in waste from head to foot—human waste, from the latrine trench. It wasn't a pretty picture, and the smell was terrible. "I was helping it decompose anaerobically—you know, without oxygen. To produce methane."

No response from any party.

"You know—" he continued with some urgency, desperate to save face, "for energy purposes."

"We did this on the Ark," Monty volunteered, always ready to defend his best friend/brother. "All the time, in fact."

They—meaning Clarke, Bellamy, Raven, Monty and himself—were currently standing in the center of Raven and Finn's ruined tent. The composting apparatus that he'd built was lying in three broken pieces on the floor of the tent, and Jasper, and nearly every surface of the tent's interior, was covered in human waste, waste that Jasper had painstakingly collected from the latrine trench (and _that_ hadn't been fun, you can bet). The explosion he'd inadvertently set off had shattered the cylindrical apparatus and splattered…shit…all over the walls of the tent.

Or blowing it up, as it were.

"I brought it here to ask Raven's help in making some adjustments, and well…I guess I didn't seal the containers tight enough, and I didn't notice the open flame on her work table…and well…"

"The shit hit the fan," Raven supplied, still grinning like a loon. Since she hadn't smiled in so long, it looked almost foreign to her face, kind of weird, actually. It was seriously starting to creep him out, in fact.

Clarke cast Raven a quelling look. "Raven, please," she said with a severe tone, but her lips were twitching nonetheless. "We're having a serious discussion here." When Bellamy looked over and caught her expression, his mouth started to twitch too, even as he gazed at her with a soft sort of affection lighting his eyes.

To that, Jasper rolled _his_ eyes. _Jesus. They should just make out already and get it over with. _The two leaders locked eyes for a moment more, and in the long beat of silence that followed, Jasper could have sworn they were talking to each other telepathically.

He suppressed a snort, his mouth curling into a wry sort of smile. _And they should have beautiful, freckled babies and walk off into the sunset together._

As if Bellamy truly _were_ telepathic, the older man suddenly turned his eyes to him, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"You and Monty are going to clean out this tent…" Bellamy began—

"Hey!" Monty cried. "I'm just an innocent bystander—"

"Bullshi—"

"_Raven, _please," Bellamy warned—

"And while you're doing _that_…you're going to share _your _tent with Raven and Finn…" Clarke added, casting Bellamy another quick glance, to which he responded with a slight nod—

"And we don't want to hear any complaints, or we just might consider letting Raven and Finn have _your_ tent instead, while you two move in here," Bellamy finished.

Jasper's mouth open and closed a few times as he tried to process what he had just heard. "But—but that's _my_ tent—you gave it to me after the 'Bridgegate' incident, remember? You know, when I _saved_ our collective ass. That's not _fair_!"

"What the man giveth, the man can taketh away," Bellamy warned, only the slightest suggestion of humor lurking behind his severe tone. "This is serious, Jasper. You could have killed somebody. You could have killed yourself. We're not gonna just let this go, okay? So do what we ask. Please. It's not much, considering the…mess you've made here."

"A veritable…shit storm, " Raven supplied with relish, and then shrugged at Bellamy's pained groan and Clarke's exasperated expression. "So sue me, I like me some scatological humor."

"Yeah, well it stinks," Clarke shot back.

Raven only grinned wider.

Later that day, just as the evening meal was wrapping up and the central fires were lit, Clarke went in search of Bellamy. She hadn't seen him since the afternoon, and they really needed to talk. She'd put it off long enough.

She hadn't been _avoiding_ him, per se (well, perhaps a bit). It was just that after the Shit Storm Incident, as the camp had taken to calling it, Bellamy had been called away to organize a hunting party while Monty had asked Clarke to help him dry herbs for their medical stock, so they'd gone their separate ways. Pretty much business as usual—

Except for that fact that for she couldn't stop thinking about what had happened up on the roof of the dropship.

And now, just like before, her face heated in a savage blush that felt like to spread all the way to her toes, and a dull ache pulsed thick and hard between her legs. G_od_, she wanted to do it all over again. Wanted that golden, hard body spread beneath her, prone and helpless, so she could do _whatever _she wanted to him…

The first time she'd thought about it, and Monty had looked over and seen her face, he'd dropped what he was doing and rushed to her side, asked her if she was all right, if she felt sick, if she needed to lie down? Did she want him to go and get Bellamy?

The embarrassment she felt had consumed her head to toe, and her heart started to race the moment Monty spoke Bellamy's name. It was enough to nearly kill her with shame, so she'd forced herself to forget about it, to stop thinking about it and get on with business. (Though she had trouble looking Monty in the eyes after that.)

But she thought about it when she was walking patrol at the perimeter of the wall.

She thought about it when she was inspecting the rain collection barrels for leaks.

She thought about it when she was watching Sterling light the central fire.

Just as she was thinking about it now.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath through her nose. Every time she thought of it, she was absolutely mortified at her own behavior. She'd shoved him down onto the roof of the dropship, straddled his hard body, and rode him like a jockey on a prize racehorse.

But _god_, she wanted to do it again, and this time _without _clothes in the way.

A whimper slipped past her teeth, a pathetic, needy sound that she was startled she could even produce. She bit down on her bottom lip to prevent another one from slipping past.

This was madness. All she could think about was him, and her, and them…doing things to each other.

And it was a disaster, because she'd given in to her reckless impulses and now nothing would ever be the same between them. What had happened to her detachment? Her pride? Her resolve? Didn't she tell herself just that morning that she would be damned if she would be another girl in his long line of conquests? How could she forget that just last night he'd been giving it to someone else (and giving it _good_, by the sound) only _moments_ after she'd left his tent?

Her steps slowed as she thought about what had happened in greater detail. Now that she had the distance of a day between then and now, she found she was able to think a little more clearly about it. She'd definitely heard _him_ making some kind of sex noise, but now that she thought about it, she hadn't heard anybody _else_, had she?

_Doesn't matter. Some girls are quiet, that's all_.

But still…she'd lingered only a short while in the center of camp before she decided to turn back. The whole deal was over and done in about five minutes. Certainly no longer than ten, tops. Could he _really _find someone that fast?

Then she thought of his wicked smile, his beckoning eyes, and his sexy, confident swagger.

She sighed.

And don't forget that dimpled chin, or that dirty, sweet scatter of freckles, or that fascinating scar just above his lip. Not to mention that deep, smooth voice that shot straight to her core whenever it was roughened from lack of sleep, tight with determination, or soft with concern.

Hell, who was she kidding? He only had to crook a finger and any girl would come running. There were probably half a dozen that would jump at the chance to fuck him, given the invite.

At that thought, something cold wrapped tight and hard around her ribs, and a hard knot thickened at the base of her throat. She reeled from the force of it, stunned at the intensity of her response. It was like anger, but somehow more terrible and consuming than that. She was…what, _devastated? _She was…_envious_?

No.

She was _jealous_.

Horribly, remarkably jealous.

She let herself feel it for a moment more before she tamped it down, stifled the feeling before it grew too large for her small frame, before it choked her and stilled her breath.

That's why she had to go and talk to him now, and make sure that nothing further happened between them. And she would fight like hell to keep it that way, because she needed to kill these…feelings…before they became something too powerful to contain, before they destroyed her. She was _not_ going to…develop feelings…for Bellamy Blake.

She was _not_.

"Thanks, Monty…and don't say anything to anybody, okay?" This was embarrassing enough.

Monty handed over the small tin of tallow fat, mixed with lavender, chamomile and calendula (which was good for burns, he said) without a word, nodded sharply at Bellamy, and left the top level of the dropship without another word.

He was sure grateful for one thing: Monty didn't ask him _how_ he had acquired a friction burn, or _where_ this burn was located. He hadn't asked for any details at all, in fact. Just nodded soberly, asked Bellamy to follow him to the top level of the dropship (their informal pharmacy) and once it was in his hands, told him to apply it twice daily.

_Good man_, thought Bellamy. Medical help with no questions asked. That was a policy he could get behind. Especially in private matters like these.

Casting a quick glance around him to make certain he was alone, Bellamy closed the hatch door and threw a bolt through the hinge for good measure. He needed privacy for this…

A moment later he unzipped his pants, opened the tin of fat, and scooped out some with his fingers. He let it heat in the palm of his hand for several seconds, and once it was slick and somewhat watery, smoothed it over his aching cock.

He threw his head back and let out a long, gusty sigh.

_Ahhhhh,_ the bliss. Finally, some damn relief. First he'd jacked without lube, and then he'd let Clarke ride him damn near into the roof of the dropship. But _fuck_, it was worth it—worth it to see her so wild and hot for it, for him. Worth it to see her rocking and snapping her hips against his, those beautiful tits bobbing and bouncing with every hard thrust.

He groaned. Felt a jump between his legs.

"Sorry, buddy…" he said, glancing down at his crotch, "you and I are gonna take a little break, okay?"

It didn't even matter that he hadn't come—not when he got the chance to watch her face through every part of that wild ride. Watch as she bucked and swayed in blissful agony, as her breath ripped past her teeth, blasting hot against his shoulder and neck. But he'd almost unraveled at the end, anyway, when she'd whispered his name like a prayer, a benediction, like he was her only salvation in this ugly world.

_Bellamy…_

He wanted to hear it again and again, that prayer. He wanted it to be the last sound he heard before he died.

So caught up in his musings, he wasn't aware that he'd closed his eyes, or that he was gently cupping his half-hard cock in his hand until a loud thump, the noise of metal hitting metal, startled him from his haze. The hatch door jolted upright a couple of times before it stilled. Someone was at the hatch.

"_Bellamy_?" came the muffled inquiry.

He snorted in surprise. _Well, well. If it isn't the little Rough Rider herself_.

He quickly set himself to rights and zipped up his pants before heading over to the hatch door.

"_Are you up there? Bellamy_?"

He bent and removed the bolt, sliding it away from the hinge. "Yeah, it's me, Princess. Hold on a sec." He gripped the handle and yanked it upward. Damn door was heavy as fuck, it's a wonder she was able to move it as much as she did. Girl was strong…

As she pulled herself through the small opening, he glanced over at the steel bar he'd been using as a lock and shook his head ruefully, just a trifle freaked when he realized how heavy _that _was as well. Girl was _strong. _

She had a hard set to her shoulders, her brow bent in determination as she cleared the last steps of the hatch door ladder. She'd obviously come here to talk.

"What's up, Princess?"

He fought down the surge of warmth that shot through him when she lifted her eyes to his, colored blue-grey in the half-shadow that lingered on this level of the dropship, but he froze when he saw something hard glinting in the depth of her eyes. Something steely.

"We need to talk, Bellamy."

He felt all the warmth leave him at the tight set of her face. She was wearing that look she got when she was all business, or she was really pissed (which was kind of the same thing) and that didn't bode well.

"Yeah, I gathered that…" He gestured to the open floor behind him, expecting her to walk away from the open hatch door and get to her business, but she did one better. She turned and shut the hatch, and then slid the metal bar across the hinge to lock it, just as he had done before.

He swallowed to clear the lump in his throat, crossing his arms over his chest and waiting patiently for her to speak, bracing himself for it.

When she righted herself, she paused for a moment, staring hard at the floor as if gathering her thoughts, and then she just started talking.

"Look, Bellamy. I'm not good with words. Not like you are. I'm better at plain speech and getting to the point, so I'll just…" and here she floundered for a moment, her face reddening, "g-get to it, I guess."

He said nothing, waiting. Something a lot like dread settling over his shoulders, weighing him down.

She seemed to fight to raise her head, to meet his eyes. "What happened today—on the roof, I mean." She cleared her throat. "It was…I mean…it—"

"Let me guess," Bellamy snapped through gritted teeth, perhaps he wasn't so patient after all, "it was a _mistake_, right?"

Her eyes widened at his words, and she took a step forward, one hand lifting and seemingly reaching for him, but he took a step _back_, somehow unable to swallow past the tight constriction in his throat. Her mouth opened in an expression of shock, concern, and she stepped forward again, following him step for step.

"No!" she almost shouted, and her tone was so emphatic, so harsh he was momentarily taken aback, and halted his backward movement. "_No_," she repeated, a little more gently, her voice softening, shaking her head for emphasis. "It wasn't a mistake—I wouldn't call it that, would never call it that. That's insulting to me _and_ to you."

Something eased inside him at the passion in her voice, the conviction. But his confusion only increased.

"So what—"

"It happened because I wanted it to, and maybe you did too, I don't know, and I think I should apologize for the way I behaved. Like you were just there for me to use." Her blush deepened. "I didn't…" Her voice was starting to break, a tremor breaking through the resolve. "Dammit…I don't—"

He took a step forward.

"I don't feel used."

He shook his head and fought off an incredulous chuckle. Now was _not _the time. She would definitely take it the wrong way, and he was on shaky ground with this girl, because everything was so different with them. Had been since the beginning, the first day they set foot on this cursed ground.

"Fuck, that's the first time any girl has said that to me," he added, running a hand through his hair, struggling to keep his voice neutral. It was a novelty, all right: a _girl _concerned about _his_ dignity after a sexual act. If she hadn't sounded so sincere he'd think that he'd dropped into another dimension. And then the other portion of what she'd said struck him, the doubt she'd expressed.

"I wanted it too, Clarke—couldn't you see that?" he prodded, and when she finally nodded absently, still looking troubled, he continued, "then what's the problem, Princess?"

But it was like she didn't even hear him, because she spun on her heel, and started pacing across the dirty metal floor, gesturing to the walls, the camp—hell probably the world—around them in agitation.

"You don't know what it's like, the pressure. Everybody's looking to _me_—even you—and I'm so alone, and I think I'm going to fuck this up—and I already _have_, haven't I? We've been waiting and waiting for the Grounders to respond to that disaster on the bridge, haven't we? And it's like I can't breathe—and you're the _only_ one I trust—"

Bellamy was at her side in two strides, reaching for her chin, tilting her face up to his, holding her eyes with his own, trying to calm her.

"And _I_ trust you, Clarke, you know that, right?"

She seemed to deflate a little, and she dropped her eyes from his, blinking like she was fighting off tears.

"I already turn to you for everything else, I can't add this to it." She gestured between them, suddenly pulling her chin from his fingers with a savage jerk. "This…touching…and…physicality."

She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest, back ramrod tight and straight. Why the hell did she make it sound like it was wrong or something, what was happening between them?

"It would be different," she muttered, still following her own thoughts, oblivious to his frown. Her voice was so low he could barely make out her words, but other than the thud of his pulse, the air was still and silent between them, and he heard her clearly when she continued, "if I had someone…someone _else_…like you do."

It took him a second for that to sink in, focused as he was on her small frame, locked rigid just a step away from him, on fighting the urge to pull her close and wrap his arms around her, soothe her with kisses and whispered pledges. The urge was so strong it gave him pause; because of all the things he'd ever felt for the princess, wanted to do to her, this was a first.

Then her words caught up to him.

"Wait…what do you mean, like I do?"

She turned back to face him, eyes blazing at she met his gaze, anger returning to her pretty features and bending her brows, pulling her mouth into a thin line.

"Oh _come on_, Cassnova. Like you don't know what I'm talking about. I heard you last night."

He stood a little straighter, stung by the venom of her tone. "No, Clarke, I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean, you _heard_ me?"

Her eyebrows rose and she shot him an incredulous look.

He shot it right back.

She fidgeted, waiting for him to say something. He waited for her to break. A second later, she did:

"The girl, Bellamy!" she snapped, gesturing behind her in the general direction of the camp. "After I left your tent last night, after what happened between us, I changed my mind about leaving like I did, so I came back to talk to you about it, clear things up."

Oh.

_Oh_.

He knew where this was going—

Oh _fuck_.

"And I—well, I didn't mean to invade your privacy. But I couldn't help but overhear—"

She trailed off in confusion as he suddenly covered his face with one broad palm, a heavy blush coloring his face, the first she'd ever seen on him, and it was disconcerting. Bellamy just wasn't the delicate type, after all. That _he_ was blushing, could only mean it was something extraordinary.

"What, what did I say?"

He heaved a sigh, scrubbing his hand over his jaw before pulling it away and meeting her eyes. There was something there now that caused her to catch her breath, made her heart race from the sheer, blistering heat of his gaze.

He took a step towards her. Then another. She shivered, watching him move. There was something almost feline about it, and it was very masculine…and very…sexual.

She swallowed hard and took a step back, only to find that her back hit the wall behind her, and she had nowhere to go. She glanced left, then right, looking for an opening.

He leaned forward, planting both hands on the wall behind her hips, just slightly above her waist. He held them straight, caging her within them, though he wasn't touching her, or restraining her. The curve of his biceps rippled with the movement and he leaned forward even further, his mouth hovering over hers.

"There wasn't any girl, Clarke."

_Oh_, his voice, deeper than she'd ever heard it, a dark rumble that was almost a growl. Her mouth dropped open in a gasp, her skin igniting from his mere proximity, just it had on the roof that afternoon.

"But…" It was hard to speak, she was breathing so hard. That wicked, wicked mouth, the very same she'd been pining for since last night, was just a breath from hers, and she wanted a kiss. Just _one_ little kiss… "I heard you, m-moaning." Her breath hitched and her words stuttered when she felt the tip of one finger light on her collarbone.

She was paralyzed, unable to move as the gentle touch traced the sweep of one shoulder, dipped under her chin, and continued to the other side. It paused there, teasing her with its warmth, before it swept straight down over the swell of her breast, brushing over her nipple. A few gentle sweeps, and it hardened under his touch.

She sounded another gasp, and his mouth came forward and nuzzled against her jaw, that agile touch now feather light and relentless at the same time, teasing the hardened peak as he planted soft, impossibly soft kisses on her jaw, the shell of her ear.

"I was alone, Clarke," he whispered in her ear, and her head tilted sideways and fell slack when his nose nuzzled her beneath her ear. "What you heard was me, Baby…touching myself. Touching myself and thinking of you."

"You…you w-were?"

He nodded, planted a kiss on the base of her neck, then he bit down gently, his teeth nipping her tender flesh. Then he dipped his head, and did the same to her pert nipple, scraping his teeth over the hard bud before he took it in his mouth and started to suckle her through her shirt. Another gasp rocked past her teeth, and her arms came up of their own accord and clasped at his forearms, slid up to his shoulders, started to roam over his broad, solid back.

"What were you thinking about?" she whispered, her chest rocking forward towards the sweet torture of his mouth.

He pulled away, a slow smile curling his mouth as his hands fell to her hips, to her waist, to top of her fly. He popped open the clasp, and started to tug them down as he dropped to his knees before her.

"Let me show you…"


	6. Chapter 6: Dalliance

"S-show me?"

That question emerged on a shaky breath that soon turned into a whimper when she heard the metallic rasp of her zipper opening, felt Bellamy's large, square hands slide from her fly to land on the tops of her thighs before sliding back to her ass. He cupped her tight backside in his broad palms, completely folding them over her curves before he squeezed her tender flesh with a slight groan, kneading her softness with an urgent touch.

She answered him, moaning at the feel of his hands caressing her, grasping her so greedily, possessively. She felt two long fingers slide beneath and between her ass cheeks to rub at that spot of thrumming heat between her legs, which had blossomed so quickly, so easily the moment he touched her, trembling from the electric jolt that rocked through her, surprising her with it's intensity.

Her eyes fell closed and her mouth parted on a breathy sigh as she opened her legs wider and pushed back against those questing, clever fingers. God, his hands, she _loved_ his hands…

A moment later, those lovely hands stilled, and she opened her eyes to look down at him only to see a question burning in their depths, a question combined with caution, hesitation.

"Clarke…" his voice matched his eyes, deep, fathomless deep, burning and hungry. "Gonna be clear, Princess. I want this—do _you_? Gotta tell me _now_, Baby."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and those big hands, still holding her so possessively, seemed to tremble minutely as his eyes swept over her face, her shivering body. "Because I'm _not _gonna stop once we start—so tell me now, and I'll…" he seemed to struggle to produce his next words, as if he had to force them past his teeth, "stop this…"

He closed his eyes, like he was bracing himself for her answer.

Clarke paused, realizing that now was her chance, her only chance, if she wanted to take it. The chance to say no and end this before it started. To try to go back to the way it was before she started to want him, to need him, before he answered that need with burning touches and the mere _promise_ of a kiss—

But then she thought of how clever he was, how fierce, how brave, how loyal. She trusted him like no other person she'd ever known, save her father. He'd saved her life, just as she's saved his. Bellamy Blake was part of her now, so much so that she couldn't say for sure where she ended and he began.

"_Yes_, Bellamy."

How could she deny it? Deny him? Herself?

She took in a breath, finding it hard to sound the words when she was shaking with such need, such anticipation. "I want this. _Please_." She added at the last, her body so tight with longing she thought she was going to combust at his slightest touch. She reached for his arms, sliding her hands eagerly over the hard length of his forearms, his biceps, marveling at the steel beneath her fingers. "Touch me, Bellamy..._god_ I want you to touch me."

And then he _did _shudder. She felt it beneath her hands where they bit into his shoulders with a tight, eager grip.

"Gonna do more than touch you, Princess," he promised thickly. "Gonna eat you until you _scream_."

A helpless sob was torn from her belly at his words, a sob that softened into a whimper when he pulled his hands away from her ass to tug at the waistband of her pants, hooking his fingers under the band of her panties on the way, so he could pull them down and over the soft swell of her ass, slowly, like he was unwrapping a present.

He stopped once he had her clothes bunched around her knees, eyes dropping to the shadowed cleft between her legs immediately, once it was level with his gaze.

Heart thundering in her ears, she tried not to squirm as he looked at her bared pussy for the first time, felling an irrational sort of shyness. There would be no going back after this…

He seemed to think the same. "You're sure?" he asked once more.

She nodded, her fingers reaching up to trace the outline of his full mouth, that curious scar. "Yes," she whispered.

Those lips curved under her fingers. "Okay, Baby…you got it," he grunted tightly, his voice roughening into a growl as his eyes dropped to her waiting pussy. "_Fuck_ yeah."

She watched in fascination and he bent his head forward to place a gentle, teasing kiss, on her damp curls. A maddening, feather light press. The soft touch made her jump, and she felt his smile when he repeated it, this time puckering his lips towards the end of it, turning the kiss into a nip as he gently pulled at her damp, swollen folds with a sharp tug before releasing them and pulling away once more.

Her sharp, whimpering cry shot straight to his cock, and he groaned as he pulled one hand from her hip to rest against her pubic bone, pulling tightly at the flesh of her mound, pulling back the folds of her labia before he bent forward to sweep the broad flat of his tongue over her slit. It was a hard, quick swipe from bottom to top, and he curled his tongue towards the end of it so that it snagged for a beat on her clit. He flicked the hard bud up and back before he drew away, depriving her of that sudden, sweet pressure that made her legs open wider, her breath shoot past her teeth.

"Oh…_oh god_!" Clarke cried, her hips jerking towards his mouth, his elusive tongue, her fingers tightening on his shoulders so hard her nails dug into the fabric of his jacket, only to slide and fumble as the slick material resisted her attempts to grab hold of him tightly, to steady herself against him. "_Bellamy_…" she cried, the syllables little more than a broken plea.

She pulled hard at shoulders, trying to pull his face, that wicked mouth, back to her pussy, gasping as she felt the cut of his chin part her slick folds, the slight burn of his stubble scraping the sensitive skin of her labia. She whimpered and started to rock her clit against the jutting edge of his jaw, breath coming fast and hard. It was good. So, so _good._

But he pulled himself away from her, hands tightening on the backs of her thighs, looking up at her flushed face with a teasing smirk as she scowled in frustration, trying to pull him back, back to the aching bud between her legs and failing miserably as he resisted her efforts with his easy strength.

"_Uh uh_…" Bellamy warned before suddenly lifting one hand and bringing it down on her bare ass with a stinging slap. Clarke gasped in outrage, even as a bolt of heat pulsed between her legs at the burning mark left by his hand. "_Bad_ girl. So impatient."

But then he dragged his prickly chin over the hood of her clit in one hard, sudden motion, causing her to knees to buckle as she cried out in pleasure, clit throbbing sharply from the friction. "Keep that up, Princess, and we'll never get to the main event." He shot her a wink.

_Oh,_ he was smug, looking up at her through heavy lidded eyes, pupils blown so wide they were little more than shimmering black pools, that familiar smirk tilting one corner of his mouth in a wicked curve. Yet beneath his bravado, his confident attitude, his voice was a broken, ragged whisper, tight with strain.

"Get on with it, then," she snapped through gritted teeth, one hand sliding to the back of his neck to bury itself in his hair, her fingers carding through the loose black curls before tightening her grip. He bent forward and nipped her pussy again, snorting against her skin. Her skin vibrated from the sensation, and she felt every word he spoke as he nuzzled her thigh with his nose.

"So _demanding_…"

"Tease." She bit back.

His hair felt like heavy silk coiling around her fingers, so she dug deeper into the heavy locks, her nails gently scraping his scalp with a light touch. She reveled in her ability to touch him like this, like she'd wanted to for so long now.

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back into her hand. She watched, fascinated, as he responded with pleasure to her gentle massage, before his lips parted in shock when she suddenly curled her fingers tight into his hair and gave it a sharp tug, his head falling backward from the force of it.

He winced at the slight pain, several hairs pulling free from his scalp, his eyes snapping open.

"What the fuck was that for?" he growled, fingers digging harder into the backs of her thighs. He looked angry, but there was a definite hint of…intrigue…in his expression. She couldn't tell for sure, but he suddenly looked…_very_ turned on.

Hmmm._ Interesting._

"Punishment," she rasped, "for teasing me," and did it again, pulling so hard at his hair so that his head fell back sharply against the grip of her hand, snarling in frustration at her rough treatment, glaring up at her even as his hips rocked forward helplessly, his fingers contracting and releasing in a sudden spasm on the back of her thighs.

_Very_ interesting.

Then he retaliated with another sharp smack to her ass, and it was Clarke's turn to jerk her hips in reaction, this time relishing the feel of his strong hand falling hard on her tender skin, and she hissed through her teeth as he caressed the seared flesh afterward.

"You're not the only one who can dish it out, Princess," he muttered darkly, suddenly parting the folds of her pussy with the long fingers of one hand before bending forward and impaling her cunt with the length of his tongue. She cried out in shock and pleasure at the sudden intrusion, her knees buckling. There was an embarrassingly loud, wet sound as he dipped and bobbed his tongue inside her and buried it deep, rotating the muscle in wide, slow circles, stroking her slick walls.

He groaned in appreciation as she began to rock in counterpoint against him, reaching back to squeeze her ass in encouragement. She was so hot, and tight, and fucking perfect, so he started to fuck her properly with his tongue, stabbing into her over and over, groaning loudly when he felt a fresh surge of wetness in his mouth, washing over his molars.

"_Bellamy_—oh my g—_Bella_-_meee_" she tried to say, but then she was snarling as he continued, her cries morphing into a strangled moan, her hands tight and desperate in his hair.

And it was better than he had imagined. He could _die _between her thighs. He wanted her to come more than he wanted to breathe.

_Time for the good stuff._

He pulled away from her with a wet smack, and she had only a second to voice her disappointment before he swept up and caught her clit between his lips, tilting his head and opening his mouth wide as he bore down, sucking her hard bud into his mouth, past his teeth, dragging his head back and forth without losing the force of his suction.

"Oh…oh fuck! _FUCK_!" Clarke screamed, the words torn from her throat as he lashed at her clit with his tongue, lips still locked tight around her clit in a vise grip. _How_ was he doing this? When he slipped his fingers inside of her, filling her with their thickness, her head fell back and knocked against the metal wall with a hard thump, but she barely felt the pain as she started to rock hard and fast against his wicked mouth and plunging fingers, hands slipping and sliding through his hair desperately. She was trying not to pull at him, trying not to hurt him, but she couldn't help it, helpless to the bolts of pleasure that raced through her whenever he tugged hard on her clit.

But he didn't seem to mind, grunting in agreement when her legs feel open wide as she cried out over and over again, helpless sobs rocking through her as the pressure between her legs tightened to an unbearable degree. She was getting closer and closer to an explosion, and she was helpless against it.

"_Bellamy_…_please _don't stop, please don't STOP," she begged, grinding against his mouth and fingers mindlessly, and he groaned loudly against her throbbing core at her pleas. She was ready to snap—

But a moment later he pulled his fingers out, unlatching his mouth from her clit with a wet pop.

"_W-what_," she cried, shocked and still reeling from her hovering orgasm, "why did you _**stop**_?" and she wasn't even ashamed to be begging, whining for the return of his mouth. She was _desperate_ to come.

"Because I want to feel it," he answered, his voice a bare whisper, wasted to thick syllables and deep, rumbling tones. He sounded utterly wrecked, as wrecked as she felt, "I want to feel it with my mouth."

That was all he said before he opened her folds wide with his hand and plunged his tongue deep inside her, spearing her with the thick, wet heat of it, and he started to fuck her with it immediately, his thumb finding her clit and lashing it hard in rhythm with his tongue...

The she _did_ scream, nearly fell to the floor when her knees buckled from the force of her orgasm, which tore through her suddenly and fiercely, white light exploding behind her eyes as she came hard and fast. She was bucking against him as he cradled her hips in his hands, lowering her to the floor of the dropship as she writhed and twisted beneath his still moving mouth.

And through her tremors, the blinding pleasure, she reeled from the realization that he was grunting and mouthing '_yeah yeah'_ against her clenching, grasping walls. His mouth moving over her until she was whimpering from overstimulation, pushing at his shoulders until he finally fell back and away from her, mouth and chin wet from her arousal.

He looked drugged, his eyes hooded and unfocused as he reached for her and cradled her loosely in his arms, bending to kiss her belly, pushing her shirt higher to kiss her chest. Then he nipped her shoulder, her neck, before resting his head against her shoulder, burying his face in her neck.

She wound her shaking arms around his wide shoulders, kissing the top of his head, humming a nonsense, soothing noise as her pulse gradually slowed, her eyelids dropping alarmingly. She was broken and boneless, hollowed out and empty, but she felt so clean, so whole. So perfect.

"Love you…" she breathed, unaware of what she was saying, struggling to keep her eyes open, her mind alert, but she was falling, falling…

"Clarke…can't fall asleep here," he said, pulling away from her prone form. The next thing she knew her world tilted and she was sliding sideways before she was suddenly swept off the floor, her arms instinctively wrapping around Bellamy's neck and he lifted her to his chest. He held he tight as he carried her over to one of the medical beds that they had fashioned for emergencies. She could feel the strength of his arms, his strong back, and she felt safe.

The last thing she remembered was Bellamy's soft mouth pressing against her ear in a gentle kiss.

He woke some time later, momentarily disoriented, his pulse climbing as he tried to place his surroundings, feeling a bit of panic at waking up in a strange place. The light was coming from the wrong angle; he wasn't lying on his bedroll, which was much lower to the ground. But still, despite these misgivings he felt oddly content, and he was warm, and his whole body felt _alive_…

A small hand cupped his jaw, and he blinked his eyes as the light caress smoothed over his chin, his cheekbone. The thumb of that small hand paused to anchor itself on the side of his mouth before it swept over to trace the curve of his lips, the touch gentle, reverent. Then the body beside him shifted, and her caught her scent, and knew her at once.

_Clarke._

"Hey…" she whispered, and now he was really starting to wake up, blinking his eyes as he struggled to full consciousness, surprised when he realized that they were lying together on one of the medical pallets. She was facing him as he was facing her; their legs were interwoven, their hips pressed together, and his arms were slung low around her waist. She was tracing patterns across his chest with her other hand, gazing at him with hunger in her eyes. "Hi," her voice was shy, but warm.

"Hi," he answered back, unable to say much more as he found his attention dividing in half, much too distracted by her wandering hands. She'd slipped both of them beneath his worn shirt at some point, and they were now roaming over his chest. She was tracing every line, every concavity and curve of his wide chest. Her fingers swept down and brushed softly over his nipples, which caused him to gasp, his upper body rocking forward as his hands tightened instinctively on her waist.

"What…what time is it?" He asked, wondering if she could feel how hard he was already, just from her slight, teasing touch.

She shrugged. She heaved a heavy sigh and rocked her hips forward, nudging against his erection, biting her lip from the sensation, her eyes falling closed.

Yep. She _definitely_ felt it.

"It's time for me to return the favor, Bellamy," she whispered hoarsely, her hands falling lower, gliding over his taut stomach, his lean hipbones.

"W-what," he swallowed, pulse starting to drum in his ears, "what do you—"

And then he groaned when her warm hands slipped past the waistband of his pants and dipped inside, both hands gripping his cock in a sure grip, one hand wrapped around the base of his throbbing length, the other folded over the soft, spongy head at the top.

She squeezed the head experimentally, twisting her palm over the crown, and he groaned loudly, bucking against her hand.

"Shit, _Clarke_…"

"Hmmm…" she muttered, glancing downward, and he could hear the curious note in her voice. "You feel…slick. What is this?" She stroked her hand up and down his length, exploring the feel of him, and because of the oil and fat, her hand slid easily, smoothly from top to bottom.

His head had fallen to the hollow of her shoulder, and his hands started to roam over the flare of her hips, the curve of her ass. "An ointment…something Monty gave me."

He was surprised he was able to form a full sentence, unable to stop his hips from rolling against her firm touch. "Harder," he grunted, eyes closing as he let himself enjoy her touch. When his breathing quickened his hands rose from her hips to slide and fold over her breasts. He hummed in appreciation as he cupped her flesh in his hands, noting with pleasure how they spilled over his palms just a bit, humming again as her nipples pebbled against his thumbs. Then he dropped his hands to the hem of her shirt. He needed to see her _now_, her pretty tits bared to his gaze, his hands, his mouth. After everything that had happened, he still hadn't _seen_ her, and he was now desperate for it. "Take this _off._"

She pulled away from him, and he stifled a disappointed groan at the loss of contact, the loss of her hands, but he watched, pulse pounding fast in his throat, as she sat up next to him, gripped the edge of her shirt in her hands and pulled it up and off over her head, her long hair falling in thick waves over her bare shoulders, tumbling over her little black bra—

He reached behind her back, tugging impatiently at the clasp. "Take this damn thing off, " he growled, fingers searching for the little hooks that held it together, snarling when his fingers caught in the fabric. The more he tugged the more tangled they became, until he was swearing, embarrassed at his clumsiness. It was just too much. _He_, Bellamy Blake, fumbling with a _bra_ of all things.

With a chuckle, Clarke pulled his hands away, smiling down at him as she gripped the edge of it and tore it off the same as she had her shirt, tossing it over her shoulder almost carelessly.

_Bet she'll regret that later._

But that was the only thought he could spare for her laundry when she finally turned towards him, topless, her breasts pale, pink and rose tipped in the soft light of the coming dawn.

He breathed out a sigh, and reached for her eagerly, filling his hands with their softness again, groaning at the silken feel of her skin, their firmness. He swept his thumbs over her nipples again, watching as they tightened under his touch.

"_Finally_…" he sighed, kneading the softness in his palms, a dopey sort of smile bending his mouth.

Clarke was watching him with amusement, shooting him a coy look through her lashes. "Do you three want to be alone?" She asked, biting her lip to stifle her laugh.

But her laugh melted into a moan when he bent forward and drew a nipple into his mouth. She gasped as he gently tugged at pulled at the hardened tips, lapping at them with the flat of his tongue. She arched against his mouth, and he pushed her back down to the mattress, moving his head back and forth from one to the other to give them each the same treatment.

She was moaning, rocking against the sweet heat of his mouth, and he drew away to whisper in her ear, his voice dark and thick with promise. "Bet I could make you come just from sucking your nipples."

She shivered at his words, fighting the urge to answer _yes, please_. After what he'd just done to her pussy hours before, she didn't doubt it. But as much as she wanted that…

She pulled away from his mouth, pushing at his shoulders when he tried to chase her back, morning the loss of his mouth.

"No, Bellamy. I mean it…it's your turn."

He shook his head. "No, Clarke. It's not fair if I have all the fun."

There was something very serious in the way he said it, as if he really meant that more than he was letting on. When she glanced at his face, looked deep into his eyes, there _was_ something very serious there, the remnants of a wound long past, an ancient hurt. It was there for a beat before he shut it away quickly. She could truly see a shadow fall over his eyes as his expression changed from open and vulnerable to cautious and guarded. She would have to get to the bottom of that…

She pushed at his shoulders and rolled him over onto his back, sliding her hands under his shirt. "Time for you to take _this_ off," she said, tugging at the hem and tearing it over his head when he sat forward to help her. "Pants too, double quick," she commanded, though her breath was growing short, watching as his golden skin was revealed to her eyes. She reached for his fly, and now it was her turn to fumble awkwardly and tear impatiently. "_Off_!"

"Easy, Princess," he teased, "all in good time…" then he smirked, "unless you want to skip the preliminaries and take him for another ride?" he finished with a wink.

She huffed at him and bit her lip at that remark, again tempted to just agree, but she would not be deterred.

She yanked at his waistband, pulling his pants and boxers down the length of his legs with less finesse then he had managed with her before, but she didn't spare a thought to that now, eager to see him bared before her eyes as she had been to his.

Finally, they managed to get his boots and pants off, and she pushed him back to lay naked before her.

God, he was gorgeous.

"Like what you see?"

Smug, _conceited_ flirt.

She crawled over him, anchoring him beneath her hips. This was quickly becoming her favorite position. Her eyes swept over him, fascinated. He was like a Greek statue come to life.

"I like it, Bellamy Blake. I like it a lot. Now I want to _taste _it."


	7. Chapter 7: Diligence

_**Last Time:**_

_She crawled over him, anchoring him beneath her hips. This was quickly becoming her favorite position. Her eyes swept over him, fascinated. He was like a Greek statue come to life. _

"_I like it, Bellamy Blake. I like it a lot. Now I want to __**taste**__ it."_

Bellamy groaned, a sound that was torn from his gut almost involuntarily, his erection bobbing in reflex at the heat in her words, the shy cant of her lashes against her cheeks, and from her the blush on her face, now pink with her arousal.

His eyes dropped helplessly to the lush, curved purse of her mouth, and he moaned helplessly, a pearl of glistening silver fluid pooling at his cock head as he imagined his fattened, purple cock sunk deep into that soft heat and held fast. Watching as her tongue swept over the crown in spiraling, sinuous curls, lapping at him like he was a sticky sweet, and she was greedy for more, and more, and more.

"_Shiiiit_," he growled from behind his teeth, shuddering, his eyes falling closed of their own accord, powerless in the grip of his desire. He felt like he was going to pass out from the thought alone. _Fuck. Fuck me. _"_Oh god—__**Clarke**_."

It was more a plea, a pained whisper, than a word or her name, and she couldn't help but shiver in response, entranced at the change in his body, at the heat of his skin, which was warming quickly under her hands.

"_Want that, don't you_?" she whispered, her own voice rough and barely audible, tight because she was gasping for air, shivering as her cunt contacted in sympathy, watching him thrash and stir beneath her, rolling his hips against hers. "_My mouth…" _she continued in hushed intensity, now leaning close to his ear, her breath heating his skin, "_locked onto your cock. Eating you. Sucking you __**down**__…"_

He groaned, loudly and hoarsely, like he was in pain, his hands tightening spasmodically on her hips, fingers biting down into her skin. She watched, fascinated, as the flesh at the base of his neck flushed a darker hue, the stain reaching his clavicles and beyond, and her hands began to move of their own accord, sweeping and sliding over the ridged, tight expanse of his wide chest in slow, unhurried circles.

"_Bellamy_…" she whimpered, as she gave in to the gluttonous appetite of her hands, so very long denied, because _god_, how she had _ached_ to touch him. For _so_ long, during endless days of wanting, and dreaming, and needing. She had studied him, traced and mapped his body with the eyes of an artist, noting every minute detail, every curve, angle, and dimension. She'd left nothing unknown, greedy for every centimeter of his form—a connoisseur, a gourmand of the flesh. His flesh alone.

And now he was spread beneath her, pliant and helpless. All hers.

At last.

She sighed as her fingers tracked the hard ridge of bone at his shoulder, rose over the crest of a hard pectoral, then dipped into the valley between. She followed each touch with a brush of her lips, or the gentle scrape of her teeth. His skin was like silk beneath her fingertips, a velvet cover for muscle and girth that was as unyielding as steel.

She caught the plump flesh of her bottom lip beneath her front teeth at the broken rumble of his sighs as she caressed him, her fingertips catching on his nipples, making him jump. Then she bent her fingers inward to scrape her nails down the center of his chest, ending at his belly button, where she paused to dip the edges of her thumbs into that soft, warm hollow, before sweeping lower, over the flat, hard brace of his hip bones. She stopped when her fingers brushed his cock, than ran them over the head of his erection with a teasing, feather light touch, pausing to dip once into the slickened opening there.

"_Ah! Clarke—god!_" he cried out, hips bucking beneath her so forcefully he nearly unseated her from his thighs, so she slipped her hands into the indent of his hips and held tight, riding it out, following him back down and settling more firmly against him. She bent forward to nip the edge of his pectoral with her teeth, and then dragged them, slowly, with infinite care, to his taut nipple, where she swept the broad flat of her tongue over the tight bud.

"Clarke," he panted, "Clarke—Clarke—_Please."_

The sound of his plea was like a bolt of electricity rocking down her spine, straight to her pussy, to the very heart of her, where she suddenly shattered apart in an involuntary orgasm. Her muscles clamped down painfully on nothing, even as her hips rocked downward against his, her wet pussy slapping hard against his pubic bone. She shuddered in surprise, crying out sharply at the next wave, sharper now because of the slight friction, feeling slightly empty, almost cheated, as the waves rocked through her until she fell forward, slumping against his chest, lungs burning and her chest slick with sweat.

After several heartbeats, his hands, so big against her back, started to roam over the curves of her ass, the backs of her thighs. He held her quietly for several moments, caressing her softly, until she suddenly realized that his chest was shaking with silent laughter beneath her. Next came the low rumble of his laughter in her ear. She shivered from the ticklish sensation.

"_Damn_, Clarke." He said softly, gently teasing, sounding slightly impressed. "Now look who's getting off on the thought alone, huh?"

That deep, sinful voice, so close to her ear, was unraveling her by degrees. She reached up and nipped at the stubble on his jaw, shivering in delight as she scraped her teeth over the bristly hairs of his chin, relishing the noise it made as she passed over it, making him gasp. But she didn't stop, nipping and nibbling at the hard line of his jaw, and the (adorable) dimple in his chin.

"You feel so good," she breathed, and it was true. She felt like an addict seeking her next fix, because she couldn't stop herself from touching him everywhere, mapping every inch of skin she could reach. "You _smell_ so good," she continued, breathing in the scent of his skin at the base of neck, which was woodsy, clean. Like earth and stone and man. She paused to bite his shoulder, to savor again the salty, slightly metallic taste. "You _taste_ so good," as her hands traced over his hard biceps, his taut forearms.

He suddenly grabbed at her hips, drawing her closer, his eyes wide, incredulous. "C-clarke. " A pause. A breath. "_Jesus_."

There was a note of disbelief in his voice, something that seemed to suggest that he found it hard to believe that she wanted him so much, that his body was so arousing, so pleasing to her. But she was still too flush with need to do more than note it briefly, and wonder at it. He was _gorgeous,_ devastatingly so, and very, very sexy, a feast for the eyes, ears and mind—didn't he _know_ that?

"No. It's Clarke." Here she paused for effect. "Clarke _Griffin_," and she finished with a wink.

He blinked, momentarily stunned. Why? Did he think she was incapable of humor?

But then he started to shake with laughter beneath her, his arms sliding around her waist as he pulled her forward in a tight hug. "_Hah_. What a joker."

She buried her face in his neck to hide her smile; but she was relieved to see some of that strange (not to mention unsuitable) doubt clear from his eyes, to see the arrogant tilt return to his mouth. She _adored_ that smirk.

"Clarke _Jesus_ Griffin," he intoned solemnly, still chuckling as he hugged her close once more before smacking her ass and pinching her bottom. "I'm gonna fuck you so _good._"

And before she had time to process that remark, he took hold of her hips and hitched her higher, knocking her thighs apart with a brush of his knee, and with one smooth, clean stroke, buried himself to the hilt inside her.

"Oh!" she cried out, "_B-bellamy_," gasping for breath as it was stolen from her, "oh God," the sensation of his quick, clean penetration completely unraveling her. Her head fell back and her hips rocked forward. There was a slight pain, because it was so sudden, so unexpected, but it lasted only a moment. Before long all she felt was a glorious pressure and fullness.

Hands steady on her hips, lifting her as if she were nothing to his strength (and perhaps she was) he pulled himself from her, slowly, slowly, nearly leaving her completely, before gently, torturously proceeding to fill her again.

"And it's Bellamy _Augustus_, Baby." A pause, a saucy slap to her ass. "But 'oh God' will do in a pinch."

Then he winked at her as he fed her his cock inch by inch, holding her hips steady in his strong grip, controlling her movements as she sank down to his pubic bone in a motion that felt almost like centuries unfolding, the endless pleasure of sliding down onto his fat length, only to feel him withdraw again in the same drawn out motion.

"Faster! _Faster_, oh please. Bellamy! Oh my god," her arms were shaking as she held onto his forearms to steady herself, her cries almost continuous, morphing into a sob as he continued, relentlessly, to slowly fuck her mad. No matter how hard she tried to thrash, to move her hips, she couldn't break his grip, holding her so steady. He was watching himself as he steadily fucked her, a curious, Buddha-like serenity glossing his features as he drove into her over and over in the same maddening, never-changing pace. Forever inside of her, forever sliding out.

"Rub your clit, Baby," he commanded, "I want to see you come."

"_Faster_!"

"No, no," he drawled, admonishing her like she was a recalcitrant child, "what you need is a good, slow fuck, Clarke Griffin. A man with endurance. Diligence. And that's what you're getting." He paused for second, changing the angle slightly before adding a sharp twist at the end of his stroke, grinding against her pubic bone, grunting slightly with the effort. "Now rub your clit, Baby. Ah, _fuck_. Let me see it. Let me watch. Ah, ah fuck."

Despite his words, he threw his head back, the tendons on his neck popping into relief as he started to show signs of strain. Clarke was lost in delirious pleasure from his relentlessly steady pace, but she did as he commanded, reaching down between her thighs to tap at her clit, because it was too swollen, too sensitive to stroke. She marveled at the tendons and arteries cording his forearms as he held her so steady, and she reached with her other hand to run her fingertips over the hard, ridged lines of muscle, her breath coming faster and faster.

At the change, his head snapped back up and he opened his eyes, panting with effort.

"That's it, Clarke," he breathed, "Fuck that's it." She could barely hear him, for he had little breath to speak. "Let me see, Baby. Let me see how good I make you feel…"

"_Oh, Bellamy," _ and despite his iron hold, she started to struggle against his grip, because she wanted to move so bad, harder and faster and harder. The slow push of his cock was filling her every pore now; she could feel its rhythm matching her heartbeat as it flooded her brain. She was nothing but that slow, relentless beat.

When her thumb grazed over her clit just so, her mouth dropped open in a soundless scream as she finally broke and tipped over the edge, her orgasm moving like a tidal wave from deep inside her to the very roots of her hair and out through every strand. She gasped and bucked and shuddered above him in an endless spasm of pleasure, falling and floating and flying all at once.

She heard him shout. Felt him grind himself hard against her, pulling her closer, then closer, buried so deep, until at last he collapsed, the fortress of his arms falling away so suddenly she fell forward and down, her full weight forcing him flat on the mattress, that motion thrusting his cock to the hilt once more. She cried out, shaking, as another wave, small and sweet, washed over her.

Until at last she collapsed against him, head tucked into his shoulder, insensate and sated.


End file.
